


That's All I Ask of You

by ilerya82



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Phantom of the Opera Fusion, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-12 07:56:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7926847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilerya82/pseuds/ilerya82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Phantom of the Opera as lived by Killian Jones, Emma Swan, and the Storybrooke elite.  Created as a gift for the OUAT Positivity Gift Exchange on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That's All I Ask of You

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third and final gift for @ily-jason as part of the @ouatpositivity blog’s fantastic gift exchange on tumblr! I know that you said you love Phantom and Les Mis, and while I was making your edit I kind of wondered how Emma & Killian would fit into that tale. 
> 
> Some words are mine, but the songs and some of the dialogue belong to Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber from his beautiful musical that I love so very, very much and that I watched the 25th Anniversary Concert of that for hours on end while writing this out! It has consumed my every waking moment for quite some time now. I did change this quite a bit, I can't ever picture Emma as terrified as Christine Daae, so we have a slightly changed ending. I really hope you like it - I had a wonderful time getting to know you this past month and hope that this story, the gif set and the wallpaper bring a little bit of happiness into you world while we wait for the show that we love to come back for another season! 
> 
> Without further ado...

“ _Think of me… think of me fondly, when we’ve said goodbye.  Remember me, once in a while please promise me you’ll try_!”

Killian Jones, Vicomte de Chagny, raised his opera glasses to his eyes as his heart leapt at the voice lilting a beautiful melody from the stage.  He had been prepared upon hearing that the understudy would be performing tonight instead of Regina.  He was the new patron of the theatre, he had to be present yet he hadn’t thought that the understudy could possibly be as wonderful as the prima donna.  But she was, and by his heart he knew that voice.  He knew that sound.

_When you find that,_

_once again,_

_you long to take your heart back and be free_

_if you ever find a moment,_

_spare a thought for me_

_We never said our love was evergreen,_

_or as unchanging as the sea_

_but if you can still remember_

_stop and think of me._

_Think of all the things we've shared and seen_

_don't think about the things which might have been._

_Think of me,_

_think of me waking,_

_silent and resigned._

_Imagine me,_

_trying too hard_

_to put you from my mind._

_Recall those days_

_look back on all those times,_

_think of the things we'll never do_

_there will never be a day,_

_when I won't think of you._

The boom of the applause from the audience below the Manager’s Box of the theater exploded in his ears, clouding all sensation.  It was her.  Truly it was her!

“Can – can it be?  Can it be Emma?” he questioned softly under his breath, “Brava!  BRAVA!”

He stood like all the rest, the standing ovation of the crowd drowning his earlier questions.  It was Emma, she was here and she was alive and she had made it to the theatre like she’d dreamed all those years ago when they were young and innocent together beneath the stars. 

Killian felt the press of the hand of Maître Nolan on his forearm, dragging his attention from the beauty who was bowing for the crowd on stage.  They raucous shouts of “ _Encore!  Encore!”_ echoed throughout the auditorium and he could see the tears and the timid smile of pure joy upon her face.  There was something so free about seeing her on the stage and in her element.  Emma Swan.  Here, in this theatre, beneath his grace as patron, he could see her voice rise free upon the stage to the delight of millions.  Carlotta was formidable to be sure, but Emma… Or was it Mademoiselle Swan now, the brilliant ingénue? 

“Would you like to meet with her, Monsieur?  She would be greatly honoured to speak with our noble patron after this performance, I am sure!”

“Oui, Monsieur le Maître.  That would be most generous, indeed.  Nothing would give me more pleasure,” Killian responded with hearty exuberance and continued to applaud as the curtain pulled to a close.  She may not remember him, but he surely remembered her.

 

Emma felt the breeze of the curtain’s close and let out a breath of relief.  She held in her arms the bouquets of flowers that had been handed to her, roses and lilacs, fragrant and sweet as her voice had been this night.  The dancers of the ballet chorus surrounded her offering every felicitation at her grand success and there was something charged about the air backstage.  She had never felt so alive, so free, and yet so indebted to her benevolent angel. 

“Congratulations Emma!”

“Simply glorious, Emma!  We knew you could do it!”

“Even better than Regina, don’t let her hear that though or you may never live it down!”

The voices were all mingling together.  It was a cacophony of sound, the exaltation of the evening’s triumph ringing high in her ears.  He had been here.  He had been watching, she was sure of it.  In box five, as always, she had seen the shadow of his cape and mask, her Angel of Music, her teacher.  He had heard her sing and that was enough for now.  That it had been so well received was beyond contemplation, she was awed that they had applauded so loudly!  The auditorium brought to their feet with tears in their eyes by her voice alone! 

With each compliment and congratulation, she handed another flower to the dancers.  They had always believed in her.  She had been one of them, maybe this proved a boon for those of the ballet chorus who wanted to take the main stage in turn.  As if sensing her thoughts, Madame French made her way through the throng of dancers and placed a hand on her shoulder. 

“You did well… he will be pleased,” she turned her lithe body back to the chorus of dancers and manages her most menacing growl of displeasure, “And you!  You were a disgrace!  Such ronds de jambe!  Such temps de cuisse!  Here, we rehearse.  NOW!” 

The choreographer slammed her cane to express her displeasure.  The girls scrabbled backwards and into position upon the stage, preparing to take their penance for what Madame perceived as a frightful performance.  Emma started a bit at the sound.  It wasn’t but a few days ago and she would have been there among them.  She wondered if this little display wasn’t just to stop them from dreaming of something more than the ballet chorus themselves.  There wasn’t enough room on the stage for more than one prima donna, and truly Regina Mills was that, but Emma… Oh, Emma was becoming something in her own right!

She moved away from the girls, her mind swirling in the fog of the evening.  Her voice had been unshakable.  The nerves that she had felt before taking the stage were absolutely gone by the time she struck the first note!  That had never happened before, never!  Not even when she was a member of the ballet chorus did she not find herself a bundle of nervous energy during a show.  She turned her body into the backstage corridor, away from the harsh lighting and towards the dressing rooms.  She had her own dressing room now, no longer relegated to the mess of the chorus, albeit a sparse place.

_“Brava!  Brava!  Bravissima!”_

The words floated at her from the shadows as she walked down the hallway.  Her body gliding towards it without conscious thought, as though a spell had fallen upon her.  One foot in front of the other, no thought for anything going on when a hand seized her arm from the shadows, whirling Emma around to bring her face to face with Mary Margaret. 

“Emma!  Where in the world have you been hiding that beautiful voice?  Really, you were perfect!” her friend enveloped her in hug, crushing her about the ribs with enthusiasm.  “I just wish that I knew your secret!  Who is this great tutor you have been seeing?”

Emma’s lips curved into a nervous smile as Mary Margaret linked their arms and began to lead her through the backstage corridor to her dressing room. 

“The Father at the orphanage… He once spoke of an angel… I used to dream that he’d appear and now… as I sing, I can sense him.  I know that he’s here,” Emma’s dreamy voice was unsettling to her own ears, but it felt good to relay the tale finally to someone who might understand.  “Here, in this room, he calls me softly, somewhere inside, hiding… Somehow I know he’s always with me… He – he’s the unseen genius behind my voice.”

She gripped the handle of the door to her meagre dressing room and pushed it open, the lamplight barely illuminating the room now spilling out into the hallways about their skirts in the dim reflection of the full length mirror that dominated the far wall of the room.  It wasn’t much but it was hers, it was all hers and here she could hear the voice of the Angel of Music.

“Emma, you must have been dreaming!  Stories like that can’t come true… Emma, please, you’re talking in riddles and it’s not like you at all!”  Mary Margaret’s concern was all too visible on her face. 

“Angel of Music, guide and guardian!  Grant to me your glory!” Emma sang as she flung herself onto the chaise long with hands clasped as though in prayer. 

“Who is this angel?  This…”

“Angel of Music, hide no longer!  Secret and strange angel….”

Nothing could quell the song that rose from her throat.  Emma paled as the gas lamps flickered about them, remembering the promise she had made to keep the secret of the angel and how she had broken that trust just now.  Madame French, she was sure that she knew… But Mary Margaret, she did not.  She questioned the angel, questioned her story as a falsehood.  Would no one believe her?

“He’s with me, even now…”

Mary Margaret dropped to her knees at Emma’s side and took hold of her hands, clasping them in hers.  Her fingers were like ice. 

“Emma, your hands are so cold!”

“All around me…”

“Your face, Emma, it’s gone white…” Mary Margaret reached a hand up to touch Emma’s pale and delicate cheek.  The flesh was cold to the touch with a soft pink glow upon her cheeks as though flushed. 

“It frightens me, Mary Margaret...”

“Don’t be frightened, Emma!  I’m here with you!”

 

They were backstage, finally, after the young Maîtres Nolan and Locksley had heard their applause and felicitations from the other theatre goers in the auditorium.  At some point, Maître Nolan, being a bright man, had come across a bottle of champagne.  It was one of the finest vintages and Killian was certain that it would be well enjoyed this evening. 

“A tour de force!  There is absolutely no other way to describe!”  Maître Nolan leaned closer to Maître Locksley, and whispered conspiratorially, “I think we’ve made _quite_ the discovery in Mademoiselle Swan, don’t you?”

As they continued down the hallway, Killian was cognizant of the darkness and shadow that they had passed into.  The dressing room where Mademoiselle Mills, the current prima donna, was found was in the brightest end of the corridor, while that of her understudy was found in the deepest, darkest part.  He felt a pang at this, that Emma should be relegated to the darkness while others had all the light with a voice like hers. 

He thought of the girl that had loved the sunshine.  The little orphan girl who had played with him along the edge of the fountain, the little girl who had once been a golden blonde but now her hair had darkened with only the lightest glints of gold among the brown.  Yes, she had changed, but he felt sure in his heart that she was still the same Emma Swan that he had known so many years before.  The two Maîtres pause before the door to her dressing room, and he felt somewhat shocked again at the meagre surroundings. 

“Well, here we are, Monsieur le Vicomte.”

It was the first time Maître Locksley had managed to get a word in edgewise to the exuberance of Maître Nolan.  Killian smiled at the men and relieved Maître Nolan of the bottle of champagne. 

“Thank you, gentlemen, but if you wouldn’t mind… I think this is one visit that I should prefer to make unaccompanied,” Killian gave the men a grateful nod and pushed into the room.  He could hear the astonished sentiments of the Maîtres as he closed the door behind him.

“It seems they have met before, David…”

“Indeed.”

The lighting of the gas lamps wasn’t much but it did plunge the room into a soft, heavenly glow.  Or perhaps that was due to the woman clothed in a dressing gown of white muslin and lace at the dressing table.  Killian felt rather naked with only a single red rose and a bottle of champagne in his hands peering at her before the mirror.  She was beautiful.  Her hair tumbled about her shoulders and down her back in thousands of tiny, delicate ringlets that shone brown, gold and red in the lamplight.  The gold looked rather like a halo about her head in the shimmer of the lamplight.  He screwed up his courage and spoke the only thing he could think of that would bring her thoughts back to the boy of fourteen that he had been…

“Emma Swan, where on Earth is your scarf?”

She turned from the dressing table, a look of shock and apprehension in her emerald eyes. 

“Monsieur?” 

“Come now, Swan,” he feigned disappointment, but it had been half a lifetime since the moment had passed, “You can’t have lost it, especially after all the trouble I took.  I was only fourteen and soaked to the skin – “

“Because you had to run in to the sea to fetch my scarf!  Oh, Killian, so it _is_ you!”

_“Little Lotte let her mind wander…”_

“And you remember that too!”

_“Little Lotte thought: am I fonder of dolls…”_

The next line came together, as Emma’s voice joined him and then took up the tale herself.

_“… or of goblins or shoes…”_

_“… or of riddles or frocks…”_

“Those picnics in the attic of the rectory… _or of chocolates…_ ”

“The Father playing the violin!”

“As we read to each other dark stories of the north,” he couldn’t contain his happiness that she had remembered him after all this time.  Emma turned back to the mirror above her dressing table and he could see her eyes glaze and fog, lost in the memories of their shared past. 

_“No, what I love best, Lotte said is when I’m asleep in my bed, and the Angel of Music sings songs in my head…”_

Killian could contain himself no longer, and pressed forward to caress her about the shoulders, joining her in the final refrain with soft reverence, “ _… the Angel of Music sings songs in my head…”_  

 

Emma placed her hand on his without conscious thought, her eyes clearing from their thoughtful state before the mirror.  She couldn’t be sure how long they had been like this, one arm about her shoulders, his right hand resting upon her left shoulder before the mirror.  There were tears in his eyes, and she couldn’t believe the good fortune that should bring Killian Jones to the theatre this evening.  After the loss of his parents and elder brother, he had become the heir to the titles and land and all the monies of his family.  He would be the Vicomte de Chagny now, she was sure, and she was sure that the role suited him. 

“The Father always said, ‘When I’m in heaven, child, I will send you the Angel of Music,’” she paused and saw Killian nod the assertion of his remembrance, “Well, now the Father is dead, Killian, and _I_ have been visited by the Angel of Music!”

“Indeed, indeed… And now, we shall go to supper!”

“No, Killian, you do not understand!”  Emma turned, rising, and takes his hands levelling him with her most serious expression, “The Angel of Music is very strict!”

“I shan’t keep you up late!”

“No… Killian…”

“ _You_ must change, and _I_ must fetch my hat,” Killian pressed a hand to her cheek, his gaze something reverent upon her soul, “Two minutes, Little Lotte.”

And with that he was gone.  Her cry of his name lost with huff of the shutting door.  Emma sat wearily upon the bench before the dressing table and regarded her reflection with a sigh.  A tremulous sound of organ music builds to a crescendo about her in the room.  The colour drains from her face and she speaks for want of someone to listen. 

“Things have changed, Killian.”

As the music reaches its peak, she can hear the booming voice of her angel from all around her.  Emma shudders and starts, unsure and unsteady, a fear rising in the pit of her stomach. 

_“Insolent boy!  This slave of fashion, basking in your glory!  Ignorant fool, this brave young suitor, sharing in my triumph!”_

Emma’s hands were shaking at the fury in his voice.  Her Angel of Music spinning his web upon her once more, his voice locking her into a trance.  Who was she to question the Angel the father had sent her?  How could she dishonour his wish that she should be graced with the beauty and power of musical training from the divine?

“Angel, I hear you!  Speak – I listen… Stay by my side – guide me!” her voice meek and pleading in the dim lamplight.  She added at a whisper, “Angel my soul was weak – forgive me… Enter at last, master!”

The Angel didn’t ask for much, just her fealty and the promise that she would be the voice that his music would use to take flight.  To have her dreams, to perform on stage… She could forgo all the rest; love had never much served her in the past.  No one had ever stayed; she had always been the little lost misfit girl but now… Now, with the Angel…

_“Flattering child, you shall know me, see why in shadow I hide!  Look at your face in the mirror – I am **there** – inside!”_

She had never seen him, her Angel of Music, never, not once.  She turned to stare at the floor length mirror.  It seemed to ripple and shimmer in light until she could see him there.  A figure clad in black elegance.  Formal evening attire, a fedora upon his head and a black cape lined with a fabric of blood red silk draped upon his shoulders.  The vision was blurry, but as the candle light illuminated his face, Emma could see that an elegant white mask obscured the right side of his face.  She drew in a shuddering breath as it dawned upon her that this was real, the figure in the mirror was truly there!  She rose her voice to him, a tremulous vibrato sound that was breathy and ethereal.

“Angel of Music!  Guide and guardian!  Grant to me your glory!  Angel of Music, hide no longer!  Come to me strange angel!”

His right arm beckoned to her, his voice pulling her body towards the mirror, her feet moving of their own volition. 

_“I am your Angel of Music!  Come to me: Angel of Music!”_

 

Killian couldn’t believe the amazing good luck.  He had had the great fortune to witness Emma’s debut on the stage and her undeniable triumph, and then to be able to reconnect with the lass he had so admired as a boy.  His heart stuttered in his chest, it was too much for him to bear.  What a beautiful night! 

He felt as though his feet were floating above the ground, as though he was walking on air.  He clutched his hat in his hands, a spring in his step as he rounded into the darkness of the corridor backstage.  He could hear music, the sound of voices further along the hall causing him to halt in his tracks.  The smile faded from his lips as the words became clearer. 

“Emma?”

His hurried footsteps rang along the corridor as the music swelled as he approached her dressing room door.  His hand shot out, clutching the handle and trying to turn it but finding it locked.  The voices inside are less muffled, clearer and clearer. 

“Whose is that voice….?  Who is that in there with her?”

Hat forgotten, Killian turns both fists upon the door, banging to be heard.

 

The banging startled her from her daze and Emma turned to stare at the dressing room door.  Loud, hurried and anxious rapping against the wood.  The handle jiggles, but she knows that it is no use now.  It is locked.  She did not lock it, but it is locked, nonetheless. 

_“I am your Angel of Music!  Come to me:  Angel of Music!”_

His words shut out the sound of Killian’s banging and cries at the door.  Emma turned herself back to the mirror, to her Angel of Music and the shimmering of the light ceases.  The glass slides and his hand reaches forward towards her.  There is no will, no other thought.  Emma places her hand in his, and he draws her into his arms, shielding her in his cape as the glass slides back in to place and her dressing room fades back to a shimmering glow in the darkness of the cavernous corridor. 

The banging stops as the door handle turns and Killian enters the room to find it empty, while a Phantom leading his soprano through the darkness into the catacombs beneath the theatre.  It’s like a labyrinth of stone tunnels and stairways, almost impossible that all of this has existed beneath the Opera Populaire for all this time without anyone knowing.  The Phantom, as he’s known by the general audience, steers Emma with one hand and with the other holds a lantern that cuts through the oppressive darkness.  It casts eerie shadows along the crumbling stone walls, scaring Emma more than she could possibly believe. 

She had heard his voice in her dreams, when she was curled upon her chaise in the theatre.  His voice held power, it placed a spell upon her beckoning to her in the darkness with the promise of music to fill her starving soul.  She had thought it a dream.  Everyone told her of the Phantom of the Opera Populaire, as though this impossible fairy story was to be believed!  But if she could not believe the tales of the Phantom, how could she believe in Father Swan who had given her his name and promised to send her an Angel of Music? 

The story was simple enough, there was a penance to be paid for every successful show and that penance was to appease the Opera Ghost.  Since the Maîtres Nolan and Locksley had taken over the floundering theatre, it had seemingly become an overnight success due much in part to the machinations of said ‘Opera Ghost.’  He would recommend shows, some he claimed to have personally written and arranged, and through their originality, and the talent of the glorious voice of their prima donna Regina Mills, the Opera Populaire was just that – popular.  For his good graces upon them, the private use of Box Five was awarded him, the seats inside never sold to the general public. 

A tug at her arm, not gentle at all, pulls Emma along the pathway.  The Phantom continues leading her downward, deeper and deeper into the darkness beneath the theatre.  The crumbling stone growing damp with moisture as they follow the twists and turns, down ramps more than stairways and as the darkness envelopes her, Emma could not help but look back.  She tried to turn her body, to will herself to see through the darkness and back up from whence they have come. 

_“And though you turn from me to glance behind, the Phantom of the Opera is there – inside your mind…”_

But his voice held a power that she could not define.  It pulled her and tugged at her, compelling her to bend to his every whim.  When he sang there was no stopping his power and his control over her.  The trance was compelling and complete.  That voice pulled her at her very core down into the depths of darkness, the stone work growing slicker with the damp moisture and ahead she could hear the sounds of water lapping softly upon a bank. 

The flickering of the candlelight caught her eye.  As he ushered her around the next twist and turn of the cavern, she noticed the candelabras scattered about.  The soft glow was enough to illuminate an underground lake of brackish ebony water, a light mist fluttering about the surface as though if she were to put her hand in to it she could feel the warmth against the coolness of caverns surrounding her.  There on the banks a gondola, ornate ironwork with fine golden filigree leaves designed about the bow, a small hook protruding to best position the lantern.  The Phantom guided Emma to sit in the boat, and pushed off with a dramatic swish of cape into the brackish water. 

There was something exhilarating about the gondola, the swirling mist, the twisting candelabras that dangled from pillars jutting out and supporting the ceiling.  Emma couldn’t help but wonder what was hiding behind the mask.  She was under his spell, completely and utterly. 

_“Those who have seen your face, draw back in fear… I am the mask you wear –“_

_“It’s me they hear…”_

The water was smooth, the Phantom barely dipping the paddle into the water.  The mist swirled and played tricks with the candle light.

_“My spirit and my voice – in one combined:  the Phantom of the Opera is there – inside my mind…”_

The Phantom was power, pure and simple.  His voice, his heart, his solitary desire the strength and power of her voice to make his songs take flight. 

_“It’s me they hear…”_

The mist swirled upwards about them, condensing into a thick fog through which she could see no more than a few feet in front of her face.  The candlelight played tricks with the shadows in the darkness, appearing as though numerous sets of glowing cat eyes peering through the fog. 

_He's there… the Phantom of the Opera!_

With a shuddering gasp, Emma sat up straighter in the prow.  The words a hollow whispering sound, like something out of nightmare, surrounded her sending a chill breeze upwards towards the roof of the cavern. 

_Beware the Phantom of the Opera!_

The candles very well could have been eyes glowing on the lake.  The eerie words seeming to bubble up from the lake itself.  The water thrummed with the vibrato of a melody playing without visible instrument.  The voices rose as foreboding as the fog that hovered and clung to them as they made their crossing. 

_“In all your fantasies, you always knew… That man and mystery…”_

_“…were both in you…”_

The water swelled and churned with the power of his voice, the strength of the song.  It swelled an pushed them towards a magnificent stone arch framing a large, iron portcullis of ornate and austere leaves echoing those on the prow.  Thousands of candles shimmered beyond the gate, bathing the darkness of the river in an ethereal glow.  The portcullis began to lift of its own accord, and the gondola floated in to the Phantom’s lair beyond. 

Emma felt her breath catch as she saw it, the Phantom’s lair, a palace of stone built right in to the catacombs beneath the theatre.  Every surface obsidian and silver, swallowed in the glow of the candelabras that were perched on every be it rocky pillar or pristine marble not unlike stars set against the night sky. 

The gondola continued its steady path to the embankment dock ahead.  Palatial and reverent, a pipe organ filled a giant alcove along the far wall as though an altar of worship. 

_“And in this labyrinth where night is blind… The Phantom of the Opera is there –“_

_“ – here inside my mind…”_

As they glided to a stop at the ornate dock, the portcullis closed just as it had opened.  Emma hadn’t a moment to think, no moment to process while her mind was somewhat clear.  The Phantom was guiding her out of the boat and up on to a dais. 

“Sing!  My Angel of Music!  SING!”

It was a command so strong that she could not break free.

_“He’s there… the Phantom of the Opera…”_

“SING!”

He circled the dais, as though circling a bird in a gilded cage.  His hands gently removing his hat and cloak, placing them on an immense silver throne.  She had seen no player at organ, no one that could be playing it to produce the sound filling the space around her, and yet it was playing.  Emma did as he commanded, vocalizing scales, the song becoming more and more extravagant. 

“Sing… sing for ME!”

Emma’s hand clutched for her throat, her eyes going wide.  She had never heard anything like this, never felt this kind of power in her own voice.  It was intoxicating!  She felt as though she was barely breathing, the notes passing her lips and soaring higher and higher.

“Sing my Angel of Music!  SING FOR ME!!!”

The note climbing and climbing, soaring ever higher.  The music drops out around them and Emma’s voice becomes a reverberated echo about his lair as she reaches the high note.  She didn’t know where the sound came from!  She had never hit any note that high before, and yet…  Yet it felt so natural, a natural extension of her being. 

It felt as though all the power had been sapped from her being.  Emma stood, almost catatonic, upon the dais.  Her body swaying to the beat of her own heart.  She could not move, the power compelling her was so strong that she could not break free. 

_“I have brought you to the seat of sweet music’s throne… to this kingdom where all must pay homage to music… music…”_

The Phantom moves as though his body glides through the air, his fingers coming to rest tenderly on the unfinished composition that rests upon the organ.  With a flourish of his coat tails, he seats himself and begins to accompany the spell that he’s begun to spin on the organ.  His fingers flitter delicately across the keys, a reverent and loving touch that leaves Emma captivated. 

_“You have come here for one purpose, and one alone…”_

His voice shudders and he stops playing, overcome with the gravity and emotion of the moment.

_“Since the moment I first heard you sing, I have needed you with me, to serve me, to sing for my music… My music…”_

His hand caresses the sheet music, as though lost in the moment, lost in the melody.  The candlelight dancing across the sheen of the white mask upon his face. 

_“Night time sharpens, heightens each sensation_

_Darkness stirs and wakes imagination_

_Silently the senses abandon their defenses…”_

The Phantom rises from the bench and advance towards her.  Where his voice is gentle, soft and cajoling, his body is predatory and prowling in a catlike grace.  Across the floor, up on to the dais.  The movement is sharp and stealthy in stark contrast to the song from his lips. 

_“Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor_

_Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender –“_

He is so close to her, moving with deliberate purpose.  So close she could have been in his arms, and Emma doesn’t quite no how to react to this. 

_“Turn your face away from the garish light of day_

_Turn your thoughts away from cold unfeeling light –“_

With the gentlest and slightest touch, the Phantom turns her head away from him with the tips of his fingers. He turns her back to face him, bringing her so close that their lips are almost touching.  Emma is not sure if she wants that, but the hypnotic state that his words have her in doesn’t leave her room to question anything.  As though they might, just before that moment, the Phantom pulls away and she feels a fog clearing from around her brain.  The world around her becoming clearer, her thoughts still slightly jumbled, Emma staggers from the space he’s placed between them. 

_“And listen to the music of the night._

_Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams,_

_Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before –“_

He’d moved his body to one of the only places that seemed to be untouched by the light of the candles.  He stood there, engulfed by the shadows, his dark clothing blending almost entirely into the darkness, aside from that white mask that covers the right side of his face. 

_Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar_

_And you’ll live as you’ve never lived before – “_

He moves out of the shadows on the crispness of the note that reverberates in the catacombs and beckons to Emma with his voice.

_“Softly, deftly, music shall caress you_

_hear it, fear it, secretly possess you_

_Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind_

_In this darkness which you know you cannot fight_

_The darkness of the music of the night…”_

Emma turns to him, her body swaying and pulling her unbidden into the circles of his presence.  Her feet moving of their own volition as she finds herself almost in his arms again.  He touches her cheek, the touch is soft and tender, but his skin is clammy and cold.  She didn’t know if it was her bravery returning or the power of the music that brought her hand up to almost caress the mask he wore. 

With the force of two magnets pushing against each other, Emma spun and ran farther away but his voice didn’t let her get far.  Before she knew it, the Phantom was singing again and he had her locked under his spell once more.  Eyes closed, her face tipped high as though the candles truly were stars and she bared her soul to the moonlit sky. 

_“Let your mind start a journey to a strange new world_

_Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before_

_Let your soul take you where you long to be –_

_Only then can you belong to me…”_

The Phantom came to stand behind her, his arm looping about her shoulder.   Emma’s had lolled until it rested upon the arm that had encircled her, her neck bared to him. 

_“Floating, falling, sweet intoxication_

_Touch me, trust me, savour each sensation –“_

Emma’s courage had returned and she stretched a hand to his mask, whether to caress it again or to remove it she wasn’t sure.  He was sure though.  The Phantom took hold of her wrist tightly, pulling it away from his and turning her almost viciously towards him. 

_“Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in_

_To the power of the music that I write_

_The power of the music of the night – “_

He had led her across the dais, almost to the organ.  The Phantom’s once rough touch turning softer as he’d moved her hand to his, leading her with a coaxing air.  Suddenly dropping her hand, he left her standing there in wonder of what she saw about her.  Darkness, the night dotted with starlight candles… Mist rolling about them.  It was hauntingly beautiful. 

The Phantom grabbed at her arm, though not altogether gently.  A soft gasp emanated from her at the shock of this, and within seconds the world went dark. Emma swooned, tumbling towards the ground.  With an alarming speed, he had scooped her up into his arms.  Her body a dead weight in his arms as he carried her towards his bed chamber.  With incredible tenderness he lay her down on the settee, wrapping her in a spare cloak for warmth.  The words sung as almost whispers in the darkness.

_“You alone can make my song take flight –_

_Help me make the music of the …_

_Night!”_

He takes a final look at her sleeping form, before heading back to the organ and his music…

 

The Opera Populaire had always been a family affair.  Whether related by blood, marriage, or simply a feeling a familial bond between the members of the cast and crew, the Opera was a family.  Fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, sisters and brothers, husbands and wives…

Madame French, the choreographer, was surrounded by her father, Monsieur Maurice French, whom they all referred to as Monsieur Bouquet for his love of fragrant blossoms.  It was due to his grace that the theatre was adorned with the freshest and most fragrant of blooms at all times.  It was also Monsieur Bouquet who was responsible for the sets and rigging, that the curtains opened on time and that the right backdrops were present during the appropriate scenes. 

Mary Margaret and Henry Blanchard had been with the theatre their entire lives.  Their parents Ava and Leopold had been the leads for years before their tragic passing, leaving the twins to fend for themselves with only the arms of the Opera Company.  Mary Margaret had joined the ballet chorus and Henry was one of background players, and when there wasn’t a part for him, Henry could be found decorating set backdrops at the behest of Monsieur Bouquet.  Both father and daughter French had always acted like surrogate parents to the Blanchard twins. 

Every member of the cast had some connection to at least one other person.  Even Regina Mills, the regal and opulent prima donna held a longtime friendship with Mary Margaret.  She also had at least had a sort of relationship with the company’s leading man, Sidney Glass, though most knew that that was rather one sided on the part of Signor Glass.  Her latest attentions were turned on Maître Locksley, however, and it was certain that there was at the very least a slight attraction on the part of le Maître.

Each production feeling like a romp through a field in springtime, when the timing was right and everything was as it should be.  It could be like children playing on the schoolyard.  Something so happy and so freeing, but when it was terrible… Oh, it could be a horrible ordeal indeed!  The evening rehearsals were when the most mischief would usually come to pass.  Almost like little groups huddled around the hearth telling stories before the warmth of the flames on a cool summer’s evening. 

Tonight, Monsieur Bouquet was in his glory telling tales of the Opera Ghost, or the Phantom who had been haunting their very own establishment.  The lantern light warmed the backstage in a reddish glow, making the collection of assorted props and set décor seem rather more ominous and threatening than they would at normal.  The prop master generally held court on evenings like this, somewhat before the end of the enforced rehearsal for the ballet chorus. 

Maurice French had whirled around and used a piece of black cloth as a cape with a length of rope formed in a lasso in his hands, much to the delight of the ballet girls below.   

“Like yellow parchment is his skin…” his voice had dropped to a rumbling growl, “A great black hole serves as the nose that never grew as it should upon his face…”

He held up the lasso to the gasping horror of the ballet girls, and he dropped the noose down about his own neck.  He inserted a hand in the noose, being sure to keep the tips of his fingers at his eyes, and pulled the rope taut.  The ballet girls gasped and applauded his brave demonstration.

“You must always be on your guard, or he may catch you with his magical lasso!  Fingertips at your eye line, my lovelies, and you’ll never have to worry about the Opera Ghost taking your –“

“Those who speak of what they know find, _too late_ , that there is prudence in silence!”

Madame French’s words boomed in warning for her father, but succeeded in startling the members of her ballet chorus to run for the dressing room.  She stepped out of the shadows, her eyes like black pools in the light. 

“Belle, I…”

“Father, hold your tongue!”

“But –“

“He could burn you with the searing heat of his gaze.  Destroy you with the power of his voice alone…” her voice had dipped, a single tear running down her cheek, “You know that…”

 

A haunting tune floated through the air, the only thing that could break through the fog of sleep Emma was lost in was music.  All music has power, but all power comes at a price.  What kind of price would Emma have to pay for the training of her voice and the power of the melodies she sang?

Her body stirred, she could feel something soft and silky draped about her, like a swaddling blanket.  It held her warm and cozy, her head lay upon a mound of pillows, their down forming a tender cocoon about her body.  She opened her eyes, the sound still floating in the air about her, it was the tinny sound of a music box.  The melody no longer haunting, but something that she recognized. 

Emma pushed up on her hand, raising her head in hopes of clearing the disorientation that had fallen on her.  _Where am I?  What am I doing here?_

“I remember there was mist… It was – it was swirling on a vast and glassy lake,” she put one hand to her forehead, as though she could check herself for fever.  “There were candles all…  All around – “

Standing, she felt her knees tremble, she was weak.  There was a feeling that all the energy had been sapped from her body and she wasn’t sure why that was.  Could it have anything to do with the song? The song that was looping over and over again from some phantom unseen music box? 

She took a tentative step, her hand resting on the back of the settee.  Emma listened with a tentative ear for the direction of the sound. The melody was coming from behind her, she hummed a few bars of the melody as she walked towards it.  There, on the table behind the settee where she had been lain prone to anything that could have happened.  But anything didn’t happen – she was still here, and, relatively whole. 

The music box was ornate in design and eerily beautiful.  A small box which held on top what looked like an organ grinder’s monkey, the hair fluffy and the hands clasping bronze symbols.  Emma pressed a hand onto the fluffy, furry head. 

“A boat, on the lake… there was a _boat…_ ”

She turned hearing the sounds of scribbling quills on paper.  Her feet seeming floating towards the doorway and the light of the candles beyond.  This was no dream; this was not her imagination.  This was _real_.  She moved through taking in the sights before her again, letting them fill her mind with the memory of the strange cadences of his music and ride across the lake in song. 

The Phantom was seated at his organ, furiously scribbling on paper.  Memories floated into her mind of the night before and the unfinished composition that had rested atop the organ.  He was dressed as elegantly as the he had been when he’d come to fetch her.  He was dressed in an elegant silk nightgown, a rich silk of the Eastern orient. 

“… and in the boat there was… a man… an angel – a Phantom!”

He didn’t seem to notice her.  The Phantom was wrapped up in the composition before him, furiously scratching out the notes with a feather quill.  She wasn’t sure what drew her feet to move, if it was just curiosity or a need to know.  Each step she took fill her with trepidation, but her confidence was growing.  The best way to cure a fear was to know it, to see it and to embrace it.  She needed to know, she had to see…

Emma’s stocking clad feet moved silently across the floor, approaching the Phantom with purpose. 

“Who was that shape in the shadows?  Whose is the face in the mask?”

Emma’s words barely a whisper.  She had crept up behind his right shoulder, peering past it to see the notes on the page below.  She heard the melody in her head as she read them, it was haunting and soulful.  Her hand shook as she reached for his mask.  Tremulous shudders through her spine as her fingers made contact with the cool white surface and she tore it from his face. 

His reaction was immediate, leaping from his seat the organ with a predatory growl as he rounded on her.  The fury rolled off him in waves.  She was so stunned by his anger at first that she did not truly take in what lay beneath the mask before her.  The anger rippling through that visage, changing what was not beauty but horrendous and terrifying.  Emma’s eyes widened, a gasp escaping her lips as her body recoiled in horror at the sight before her. 

He was no angel; he was a monster!

“Damn you!  You little prying Pandora – you little demon!  DAMN YOU!”

Emma ran but found herself trapped against a wall of the cavern.  She was trying to escape him, but she wasn’t fast enough.  The Phantom was upon her, grabbing her arm and whipping her around to face him. 

“Is this what you wanted to see?”

Emma struggled against him, eyes closed to the horror of the gruesome face before her.  He was close enough that she could see the muscles working in the sinew of the holes in the flesh.  Bone where she should not be able to see bone… She managed to tear her arm free from him, but he pursued her as a lion does its prey. 

_“Curse you!  You little lying Delilah!  You little viper!”_  He spat the words at her through song. 

He was trying to cast his hypnotic web upon her again through song, but Emma couldn’t let him.  She had to get away.  Tears gathered in her eyes and she stumbled, falling to the ground.

_“Now you cannot ever be free!  Damn you!  Curse you!”_

Emma’s tears flowed freely, her body racked with gasping sobs.  She kept her eyes on the floor, unable to look at him.  The Phantom turned away from her, continuing his song.

_“Stranger than you dreamt it – can you even dare to look or bear to think of me; this loathsome gargoyle, who burns in hell, but secretly years for heaven, secretly… secretly…”_

The Phantom covered the disfigured side of his face with his hand.  Emma was still on the ground, shaking, unable to break through his hypnotic chant.  She had to get away, but the horror of his face and the terror of his words, the web he was spinning with music kept her motionless.  He started walking towards her, she could hear the click of his souls against the cold stone coming closer. 

A hand reached down towards her.  Emma looked up and found that he held his right hand over that side of his face, shielding her from the sight.  A glimmer of hope sparkled in his eyes as he peered down at her.   Taking the proffered hand, Emma rose to her feet but turned from him as soon as stood.  She couldn’t bear to look at him, couldn’t bear to take in the sight when the memory of it was terrible enough. 

“But Emma…  _Fear can turn to love – you’ll learn to see, to find the man behind the monster: this... repulsive carcass, who seems a beast, but, secretly dreams of beauty…”_

She could feel his eyes on her, hear the desperation and hope in his voice.  He wasn’t as powerful when the words weren’t angry.  He didn’t know how to shape the power of the music as well when the sentiments were tender.  He may have the gift of an angel’s music, but he was still more demon than man with a taste for blood and violence. 

_“Secretly… Secretly…”_

Emma summoned all the strength she could as she turned to look at him, the tears still wet on her cheeks.  He wasn’t far away, he’d moved as close to her as he could with being directly on top of her, as though he were willing her to change her mind with his voice, to adore him.  The Phantom’s hand reached out to touch her, but it was with his right hand, leaving his face exposed.  Emma turned away, sharply and she could hear him pull away from her, shrinking from the dismissal. 

“Oh, Emma…”

She caught the gleam of the candle light on the surface of his discarded mask.  It seemed no worse for wear, and so she picked it up.  His back was turned to her, his head in his hands keening mournfully.  She moves towards him and he turns slightly so that the left side of his face only is illuminated by the candles.  Emma stretched a tentative arm towards him, the mask held in her hand. 

His eyes bore down on the mask and she could see awe and surprise mingled in his expression.  He took it, slowly, from her grasp and turned from her while he replaced the mask on his face.  His hands smoothed his hair again before turning back to her.  She watched as he straitened his spine, his confidence restored with his mask back in place. 

“Come, we must return,” he grabbed her hand and began to pull her towards the boat.  “Those two simpering fools who run my theatre will be missing you by now…”

 

The Maîtres of the Opera Populaire spent most mornings in their offices working.  Their gala the night before with the newest patron of the theatre, the Vicomte de Chagny, and the loss of Regina’s ability to sing for the evening leading to their ballet chorus ingénue Emma Swan taking the stage had left them both in a state.  Whether that was a state of veritable bliss or a state of disbelief, they couldn’t be sure.  The only thing that was certain – the night had been an unparalleled success!

Robin Locksley sat alone this morning at his desk, one of several newspapers spread across his desk and all with a similar headline – _MYSTERY AFTER GALA NIGHT!_   He frowned at the headline and perused the article and review of the evenings performance.  Glowing reviews for Miss Swan, glowering complaints that Miss Mills had been absent, and the fevered concern that Miss Swan had been missing since shortly after the curtain call.  Ah, gossip!  The fervor of the rumour mill was the life bread of the theatre, n’est-ce pas?

“Still, at least, the seats get sold… Gossip’s worth its weight in gold!”  He took a sip of coffee, raising it in a silent toast to the newspapers on his desk.  The upcoming show was sold out as well.  Things were progressing just fine, and should Miss Swan not return from wherever it was she had run, well… Regina should be well enough to take the stage again for the next show.

Robin placed the coffee cup on the desk, and rising shoves the offending paper.  Stepping out from behind the desk, he moves over to examine himself in the mirror. 

“What a way to run a business!  Spare me these unending trials!  Half you cast disappears, but the crowd still cheers – Opera!” he runs his hands through his hair, and is only slightly bemused with the stray strands that stand on end as he does so.  “To hell with Gluck and Handel – it’s scandal that’ll pack ‘em in the aisles!”

Robin straightens his cravat, brushing and smoothing at his coat tails.  Well, at least he could look the part of a successful Maître, even if he wasn’t really feeling it right now.  He had a blessed moment of peace before the door to the office burst open and David Nolan, his partner, entered with an angry growl.

“Damnable!  Will all walk out?  This is damnable!”

“David, please don’t shout!  It’s publicity, and the take is _vast_!  Free publicity –“

“But we have no cast!”

“But David, have you seen the queue?”

Robin goes back over to the desk and grabbed what he was searching for – two letters, both of which are lined in black.  He hadn’t remembered there being two, he remembered Madame French entering and depositing the daily post earlier that morning, but not that there had been two letters to read.  His eyes scanned across the titles on the letters.  One for each. 

“Oh, it seems you’ve got one too…” he handed his partner the letter.  David tore it open with fervor and began to read aloud from it. 

“Dear David, what a charming gala!  Emma enjoyed a great success!  We were hardly bereft when Regina left – otherwise, the chorus was entrancing but the dancing was a lamentable mess!”  David threw the offending letter down on to his own desk with a sigh of frustration.  It was infuriating! 

“Dear Robin, just a brief reminder:  My salary has not been paid.  Send it care of the ghost, by return of post – P.T.O.: No one likes a debtor, so it’s better if my orders are obeyed!”

They paced the floor of the office, both men running their hands through their hair in frustration.  This wasn’t the first time letters lined in black had arrived since they’d purchased the theatre, and all of them had threatened or mocked in some way the capacity of the two men to manage their purchase. 

“Who would have the gall to send this?”  Robin asked aloud, it was a rhetorical question, but David had answered him anyways.

“Someone with a puerile brain!”

Robin examine his letter, front and back.  Taking in all the details of the note and the signature of the sender.  He paced over to David’s desk and picked up his discarded letter, proceeding to do the same with this offending text.  The handwriting was the same on both and signed the same.  He carried the letters to his partner, pointing out the similarities. 

“These are both signed ‘O.G.’…”

“Who the hell is he?!”

Both dumbfounded for the moment, thinking back to all the conversations they had had with the former theatre manager.  What was it he had mentioned that they must do?  They looked at each other, the shock of realization dawning in the eyes.

“Opera Ghost!”  both men cried out in shock. 

David threw his hands up in the air, fury radiating from him. 

“The nerve – “David gestured at the letters in his partner’s hands. 

“It’s really not amusing,” Robin resumed his pacing of the floor. 

“He’s a funny sort of spectre… to expect a large retainer!  Nothing plainer – he is clearly quite insane!” David furrowed his brow and started pacing the floor with Robin.  Both men lost in their own thoughts when the door to the office burst open again. 

 

Killian threw open the door to the management office, fury and rage roiling about inside him, the black lined paper crumpled in his fist.  The audacity! 

“WHERE IS SHE?”

His growl startling the two men pacing the interior of the office into a tizzy.  He liked the two managers of the Opera Populaire, but he couldn’t believe their audacity at trying to separate him from Emma.  What gave them the right?  How had they the nerve to – to –

“You mean Regina?” David Nolan asked, somewhat confused.

“I mean Miss Swan – where.  Is.  She?”

“Well, how should we know?”  Robin Locksley spat at him with a glare. 

Both men resumed their pacing of the floor, worrying their hands and furrowing their brows.  Killian took a deep breath, trying to centre himself and not let his rage consume him. 

“I want an answer – “he held up the crumpled note in his left hand, “I take it that you sent me this note!”

That caught their attention.  Both men stopped their pacing and turned on him, shock and insult showing plainly on their faces.  They glanced at each other, then at him, and he could tell they were trying not to let their concern show but it was written on their faces. 

“What’s all this nonsense?”  Robin started strolling towards him, huffing in frustration at this interruption to their pacing. 

“Of course we didn’t send you any note!  Why should we do that?”  David’s frustration was plain, and he too started towards him. 

“She’s – she’s not with you then?”

“Of course not!” Robin spat.

“We’re in the dark!”  David threw up his hands. 

Killian shook the note at them again.  “Monsieur, don’t argue!  Isn’t this the letter you wrote?”

“And what is it that we’re meant to have wrote?” Robin spat again.

“Written…” David corrected under his breath. 

“Written…” Robin shot his partner a glance as he reached out to take the offending document from Killian’s hand.  He scans it and carries it over to David, handing it to him to read as well. 

“Do not fear for Miss Swan.  The Angel of Music has her under his wing.  Make no attempt to see her again… Look, Robin – it is the same at the others!”  David cried. 

“Others?”

Killian was at a loss.  If the managers had not written the note, then who had.  It was unsigned and there was no return address.  It had been hand delivered to his footman, who had passed the letter directly into his care this morning.  

“He’s trying to break them apart as well as blackmail us out of our profits?” 

The managers continued their conversation as though Killian was not there.  He cleared his throat, gaining their attention as both men came to stand beside him, trying to usher him out of the management office.  Where on earth was Emma?  What had happened to her?

“If you didn’t write it, then who did?  Who is this ‘Angel of Music’ and where has he taken Miss Swan?”

They have almost made it to the door when Regina Mills bursts into the room, with Signor Glass following close on her heels.  She was dressed to the nines, but there was nothing beautiful about the fury on her face.  Her normally gentle smile was replaced with a sneer.  She pulled something from inside her muff and held it up into the air crying out as she walked into the management office. 

“WHERE IS HE?!?”

“Ah, Regina welcome back – “David began but she thoroughly cut him off. 

“Your precious patron,” she spat venomously, “Where. IS. HE?”

If looks could kill, Regina Mills, the prima donna of the Opera Populaire would have slaughtered everyone on sight.  She was angry, it was no question, and in her hands she held a black lined piece of paper just like all the rest.  Robin tried to slink up to her, to calm her fury with his charms, but Signor Glass was there before he knew it.  Sidney Glass sidled up to the soprano, taking her elbow in his hand and pulling her against him protectively.  She shrugged him off with the same venomous glare as her words. 

“It would be in your best interests, Monsieurs, to bring the Vicomte forth,” Sidney Glass raised his nose to them in a haughty air that was less intimidating than it was piteous.  He was wrapped around the finger of the soprano, following her about like a love sick puppy.  Regina felt the same as she rolled her eyes and blew a curl from her eyes as huffed a breath.

“What is it now?”

Killian stepped forward, sighing his exasperation.  This was not going to go well, but he could fight his own battles, of that he was sure.  Regina stepped forward, shaking the letter in his face. 

“I have a letter – a letter which I _rather_ resent!”

“And did you send it?”  Robin whirled on him, letting his sentiments be known. 

Killian could see as well as the Maîtres that this letter was on lined black paper as well, but he knew that any man would want to defend the honour of a woman they cared for.  He hoped the sentiment was not lost on the angry diva, for Maître Locksley’s sake. 

“Of course not!  Can you not see?  It’s like the others!”

“As if he would!”  David interjected.  He was glad that at least one of the Maîtres could see sense. 

“You didn’t send it?” 

The shock in Regina’s voice was evident.  She had come all this way to confront him, and she must have been seething the entire journey, but now that he was not the true target of her fury, she was floundering. Her eyes were narrowed to slits, disbelief evident on her face. 

“Of course not!”

“What is going on…?” Robin ran a hand across his face.

“You _dare_ to tell me that this – this vile piece of garbage is not the letter you sent?!”  She stepped right in front of him, the letter tapping against his chest.  Fury hardly contained on her face.  Regina needed someone to be angry with, and while he was sure that he would regret it in the end, Killian allowed her that for the moment. 

“And what is it that I’m meant to have sent?”

He grasped the note and tore it from her hand, scanning the writing on the page.  It was the same as the others.  He cleared his throat and read aloud for them all to hear. 

“Your days at the Opera Populaire are numbered.  Emma Swan will be singing on your behalf tonight.  Be prepared for a great misfortune, should you attempt to take her place…”

He’d had quite enough of these notes, and quite enough of being the centre of blame for everyone.  He could tell the managers were as tired of this game as he was.  Where on earth was Emma and why was this ‘Angel’ acting like he was the true power of the theatre?  He wasn’t on the stage performing; he couldn’t possibly claim credit for the opera’s success!

“There are far too many notes for my taste, and most of them about Emma!”  Robin sputtered from one side of the room. 

“All we’ve heard since we came is Miss Swan’s name –“

David was interrupted by the crash of Madame French’s walking stick on the floor of the office and the clearing of her throat.  Madame French stood in the doorway to the office flanked by Mary Margaret, who held in her hands another of the black lined pieces of paper. 

“Madame?”

“Miss Swan has returned,’ she commented with authority, as she did all things. 

“I trust her midnight oil is well and truly burned then,” Robin commented dryly. 

“And where precisely is she now?” David asked with concern, his eyes lighting on Mary Margaret rather than Madame French for his answer. 

“I thought it best that she went home –“

“She needed rest!  She was exhausted!” Mary Margaret’s concern for her dearest friend was written plainly on her face with the exclamation.  She seemed to be more concerned than anyone else in the room, and Killian felt sure that he would have better luck in making her an ally than of trying to make an ally of any of the others. 

“May I see her?”  His eyes searched the face of the young dancer.  There were tears threatening in the dancer’s eyes and she averted her gaze from the face of David Nolan to his own.

“No, Monsieur, she will see no one,” Madame French bit in with annoyance that he should even ask such a thing.  Did she now know to whom she spoke?

“Will she sing?” Sidney Glass’ voice was pleading.

“Will she sing?” Regina Mills’ voice reeked of desperation.

Mary Margaret handed the note to Madame French, a single teardrop slid down her cheek.  The choreographer took the paper, her normally calm demeanor shifting under the storm in the management office, and Killian could see her steel her expression in anticipation. 

“Here, I have a note…”

“LET ME SEE IT!”

The outburst came from the entire crowd gathered in the management office, save Maître Locksley.  He seemed to be nonplussed by the appearance of yet another note into the mix.  Killian’s heart beat faster, his concern for Emma causing the fluttering.  How could he protect her when he had no idea what was going on?

“Please!”  Robin snatched the note from the choreographer’s hand and proceeded to read it to the gathered crowd, “Gentlemen, I have now sent you several notes of the most amiable nature, detailing how _my_ theatre is to be run.  You have not followed my instructions!  I shall give you one last chance…”

 

The Phantom sat at his desk, his quill scratching furiously at the paper as he penned yet one more note.  He’d sent several in the last twenty-four hours.  None had been answered, so he wondered just how they had been received.  If the Maîtres of the Opera Populaire wanted to continue being in charge of a successful production, they should take heed to his warning. 

He had produced for the new Maîtres a mezzo soprano of extraordinary talent.  If she continued her training with him, the power of the music within in her would bring men to their knees.  He contemplated the note before he went on.  The desk in the alcove was a comfortable place for him.  He was surrounded by his books, and the soft glow of the candlelight.  It was one of the few comforts that he felt safe in the world.  He had been denied for so long the joys of the world above, that he gathered those joys and comforts wherever he could. 

“…shall give you one last chance…”

Oh he had a plan, a glorious plan.  The power of the music would feed his soul and he knew that it would eventually cast its spell upon the world until he could live amongst the light once more as the respected Angel of Music that he was. 

_Emma Swan has been returned to you, and I am anxious her career should progress.  In the new production of “Il Muto” you shall therefore cast Regina as the pageboy, and place Miss Swan in the role of countess.  The role which Miss Swan will play calls for charm and appeal, the role of the pageboy is silent – which makes my casting, in a word, ideal._

_I shall watch the performance from my normal seat in Box Five, which will be kept empty for me.  Should these demands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur…_

_I remain, gentlemen, your obedient servant, O.G._

As for the disaster, he wondered what they would make of the disaster he had in store for them.  He could cripple the Opera Populaire with a flick of his wrist.  The whole company could be brought to its knees in one fell swoop, not just through some small magical persuasion of weak vocal prowess for the diva Miss Mills.  The candlelight danced across his mask as he carefully sealed the letter in the black bordered envelope, with his signature blood red wax. 

Should they ignore this warning they should all pay… And they would pay with blood!  His power would not be denied!

 

“Emma!”

Regina spluttered, her eyes narrowed to slits.  She was absolutely incensed at the reading of this note, and with no surprise.  The Maîtres were at a loss for how to reassure her.  David, who had known the prima donna the longest, kept his eyes on the tiny ballet dancer near Madame French.  Madame French looked as though her heart had been torn from her chest and stomped upon in the ensuing squabbles and Mary Margaret had shed more tears at the mention of her friend. 

“Whatever next… What could the spectre possibly be planning?” 

Maître Nolan’s concerned gaze was returned by Mary Margaret, and then the private moment was broken without ceremony by the renewed exclamations from Sidney Glass that the company did not deserve the beautiful voice and spirit of Regina Mills. 

“This is all a ploy to help Emma!  Of course, your bloody new patron the Vicomte, her lover, would want to further her career!”  Regina’s cruelty knew no bounds.  She felt attacked and so resorted to the barbarous comments that would surely slice every person to catch her ire.  Maître Locksley moved towards the soprano and took her hands in his. 

“This is insane, Madonna, you are our star – “

She shook her head, tears threatening in her eyes.  Robin’s hands were calming, holding her in place.  She wanted to run, wanted to scream but he had an overwhelmingly calming nature that seemed to steady her just as she needed.  He wouldn’t let this stand; she could tell he was as offended as she at the suggestion that she should be silent in the production.

“I know who sent this, it must be the Vicomte – _her lover!”_ she spat again, her anger was melting slowly away in his hands.  Her fury mainly simmering as she could see the affront was felt by the Maître as well. 

“Indeed?  How dare you!  Can you believe this?”  The Vicomte ire riled, he was petitioning the entire gathering, which it seemed all believed that he could not – nor, would not – send such a note. 

She suddenly felt weak, and pulled herself from Maître Locksley’s grasp, her body moving as fast as it could for the doorway to the office and the safety of the foyer beyond.  She couldn’t breathe.  Her career was over, they would shove her aside for the younger Miss Swan, she was sure.  She could not breathe!

“Signora!” 

The cries of Maître Nolan caught on the air as she ran.  Oh David, her friend of a good many long years she couldn’t tell him what the fear of being without a place on the stage had done to her.  She reached the foyer and stood, a hand pressed upon the ornate balustrade of the staircase, the other flattened against her stomach to try and catch her breath. 

When she heard footsteps follow from behind her, she rolled her eyes thinking it probably just Sidney seeking to comfort her when she really just wanted to be alone.  She wanted to be alone and take peace until they wrenched her from her position as the principle soprano.  She knew it was coming, Emma Swan was good.  She had a beautiful voice, if slightly immature, that could be molded into something that could carry the company for many years to come.  It wasn’t that she was showing her age, there were days when she was as fresh faced as even the most precocious ingénue, it was that she was starting to feel it.  Regina was starting to wonder what her many years on the stage had brought her.  A hand pressed on her shoulder, and it was then that she realized it was not Sidney Glass who had come to her in the foyer.  No, it was someone else – someone whose opinion of her meant so much more. 

“Signora, you are our star!  No one but you,” Maître Locksley’s voice was soft and tender. 

She could hear the smile in his voice without turning to see it, though she did as she felt she needed the visible proof.  She peered up at him through her lashes; a flirtatious gambit that she felt sure was working as she saw the colour flush in his cheeks.  He was a handsome man, the sandy blonde hair and the beard that was flecked with grey.  Maître Locksley was the first man she had felt such an attraction for in so many years that she had lost count.  Oh, she’d had lovers, but there was no real love between them.  Looking at Robin Locksley, she had been struck with a feeling of connection. She had looked at him and thought, “Oh it’s you,” as though the search she had been on had finally ended.  She wondered if he had felt the same. 

“Regina you – _you_ are our star and always will be.  The man is mad if he thinks that we shall take orders from him!”

He took her hands in his again, his thumb stroking her knuckles tenderly.  Regina’s ire all but melted away under his touch. 

“Miss Swan will be playing the pageboy; _you_ will be playing the lead.”

“It’s useless trying to appease me, you’re only saying that to please me and keep me under your thumbs!” 

Her ire wasn’t quite as venomous as it had been before.  Robin’s calm and assured manner was soothing her frayed nerves.  In fact, Regina thought that he was possibly the only person who could have done such a thing.  She was relieved to see the look of tender adoration that had come across his face.  She thought that he might be as smitten as she, in this moment.

“Appease you?  Why my dear, I believe that you appease us by remaining here after so much has befallen you since we’ve taken on the role of management!  I shudder to think what would happen should you leave us, what a hole that would leave in our souls!”

Her smile at his words was genuine.  It was something tender; she could hear the emphasis and hear the underlying claim to his words – _what a hole it would leave in my life if you were not here._  

“Your public needs you!  We need you too!”

“Would you not rather have your precious little ingénue?”

Her flippant remark didn’t leave its usual sting; she could see that as the lines about his eyes crinkled, his smile genuine and full of hope.  Watching him was intoxicating.  He could move any sort of emotion from her with a glance, the touch of a hand. 

“Signora, no!  The world wants you!”

Regina could not fight the blush that rose upon her cheeks as brought her hand to his mouth to kiss her.  It was a mark of tenderness that she had not experienced in years.  Most kissed her hand out of politeness, this was something reverent.  Something beautiful and tender.  This was something that she wanted more than anything.  

Though she assented immediately, the quiet murmurings of feelings long hidden from Maître Locksley held them both occupied for many hours to come.  The Prima Donna would take the stage once more, to the delight of all her fans, and to the delight of the man who held her heart…

 

Those gathered in the office disbursed, though not before Killian had grace to overhear that Madame French knew more about this ‘O.G.’ than she was willing to admit.  When Maître Nolan assured Signor Glass that Regina would take the stage as the countess, regardless of the ominous writings of the Opera Ghost, he had distinctly heard her sharp intake of breath.  As the Maître prattled on much to the relief of Signor Glass, he could hear Mary Margaret trying to calm the choreographer and make her to see sense. 

“They do not understand!  Beware to those who scorn his word for the angel sees all, the angel knows all…”

“Madame French?  Come away, please!  There is naught for us to do here now that they have decided.  Surely our time would be better served rehearsing the new dances for the production whilst the stage is free?”

The little dancer was pleading, pulling at the hand of her mentor.  The woman was as solid as stone, unmoving and unblinking.  She was reciting as if by memory a warning she had heard in years gone by.

“This hour shall see your darkest fears… for the angel knows, the angel hears!  But if his curse is on this opera…. Then I fear the outcome should you dare to…”

“Madame?”

Killian’s voice had been the one to break her trance at last.  The fog in her eyes seemed to clear, her expression startled as she took in what was happening around her.  Where once she had been lost in her memory, the renewed sense of self brought her quickly back into her toughened state. 

“Excuse me, Monsieur le Vicomte, I believe that I have a ballet chorus to ready for a new production,” she murmured and she took Mary Margaret’s proffered arm leaving the management office by the staff entrance from which they had originally come. 

Killian was certain that the choreographer new more about this Angel of Music, this Phantom of the Opera than she was telling and he vowed to find out what that might be – before it was too late!  He resigned himself to speak with Emma, and quickly, if only to assure himself that she was well.  He made a hasty exit of the theatre and informed his driver where to find Miss Swan’s lodgings.  She may not wish to see anyone, but he needed to see her.

 

Emma sat in the darkness of her room in the Lucas’ boarding house.  The curtains were drawn to block out the sun, the light of no flame illuminating the room.  She wanted any and all who ventured here to think her asleep and resting after the events of the previous two days.  She felt as though her whole body was numb. 

The father of the orphanage had always promised to send her an angel, but this man who had claimed the name could not truly be called an angel, could he?  Angels were things of beauty and light, her Angel of Music, this Phantom of the Opera he was a creature of hideous darkness.  Something made of the blackest night to hide the corruption that power had wrought on his body.  Music was all that mattered to him, and music held power for him.  He could bend her will to follow based on the cadence of the song.  Always pulling on the threads of the web he had woven around her, the puppet master was ever present in her mind. 

She could hear him even now.  Angry thrumming noises in her ears, violent vibrato like the rumbling of thunder, though there were no clouds in sight.  Even here, so far away from the theatre, under cover of darkness, she was never truly alone – never truly able to think freely and be safe from his watchful eye.  She could feel his presence everywhere around her.  She did not dare think too much about what she wanted, for what she wanted and what the Phantom wanted were not the same. 

A knock on the door startled her; losing her footing in the room she toppled some bottles of perfume on the dressing table in her shock.  She muttered a curse as her visitor knocked again.  This time she could hear a voice outside the door, that of Ruby, the granddaughter of her landlords. 

“Emma?  Are you alright?  There’s a gentleman here to see you, should I send him away?”

Emma stiffened immediately.  _A gentleman?  Who could that be? Surely he wouldn’t come here, would he?_

The knock came again.  Three gentle raps upon the door and Ruby’s voice, soft and pleading. 

“Emma?  He’s very handsome, and quite worried about you.  Would you at least speak with him and put his mind at ease that you’re alright?”

It could only be Killian!  He would care, and despite whatever warnings he had been given to stay away, she knew his heart rather like she knew her own.  He would come to make sure that she was fine, of course he would! 

“Just,” her voce was too rough when she began to speak, clearing her throat she tried again, “Just a moment Ruby, I’ll be down directly.”

Emma threw back the curtains, letting the light in.  She sat at her dressing table, taking but a moment to make sure that there were neither great circles under her eyes from lack of sleep nor any curls out of place on her head.  She may not feel presentable, but she knew that she must look presentable if she was to convince him that she was well.  She could still hear the angry rumblings of a storm that was threatening, could still hear the voice of an angry Phantom, for he was that…  He was no Angel of Music, of that she was sure.

She took a deep breath, summoning all her courage, and made her way down to the drawing room to face her guest.

 

“She’ll be with you shortly, Monsieur.  Can I offer you some tea or coffee?”

The tall, dark haired beauty before him offered him a seat and a beverage with a coquettish smile.  He paid her no heed as he took a seat, and somewhat barked out a reply of “Coffee, if you please” before turning his eyes to the window.  The room was bathed in light from the large windows filling the wall opposite him.  It was as though this drawing room were a conservatory of sorts.  The sun shone in the garden outside, everything in the fading colours of fall and the leaves on the trees vibrant shades of red and ruddy orange.  It would have been beautiful, under more normal circumstances. 

He couldn’t take this waiting!  He stood and began to pace the floor.  When the door opened to the drawing room again, it wasn’t the young beauty who had offered him the coffee, but Emma standing pale in the doorway.  All the colour had gone out of her, her skin was white and her eyes lacked the sparkle that they normally carried. 

“My little Lotte!” he rushed to her and took her hands in his, guiding her over to a seat by the hearth in the hopes that the fire would bring the colour back to her cheeks.  He thought he could see a slight twinkle return to hers. 

“Please, Killian, I’m alright.  Truly, I am well,” she held his hands as warmly as he held hers, and though she had originally thought to try to make him go, there was something in her that knew she couldn’t.  She had loved Killian Jones for many a year, she had let him go before, and she was not going to let him go again. 

“We’re you hurt, darling?  Is there – is there anything I can do?”

He raised her hands to his lips, kissing them with a tenderness that spoke louder than words.  This caused Emma to blush a furious shade of red that he couldn’t have imagined more beautiful if it had been the setting sun. 

“No, truly, I am well!  But, if you would sit with me a while, it would be wonderful, and tell me whatever news you can that might take my mind from…”

“Oh, yes, I believe that I can!”

They passed the afternoon in peaceful conversation.  Killian recounted every tale that he could of people that she would recall from their childhood together, to the more painful tales of the loss of his own parents and elder brother.  At the end of the strike of the clock for the evening meal, Emma seemed much more herself and the colour had returned to her cheeks. 

When he saw her back to the theatre, there was much settled between them, so much more than just catching up on the past and where their hearts delighted most.  There was something precious and delicate, a trust that was born anew of their reunion and their shared conference over coffee and cakes.  It was tenuous and new found, but it was there and he would shelter it and help it grow.  He would protect her life with his own, not allowing the thought of personal safety to allow harm to come to her.  She was his little Lotte, his beautiful Swan. 

He stood with her, before the entrance to the theatre, her hands still clasped in his.  Her cloak pulled tight about her, the hood shielding her face from the lamplight.  He was wont to let her go into the theatre after what had happened before, but he knew that she must take her place in rehearsals.  He knew that she must be there to take her place on the stage.  When ‘Il Muto’ opened, she must be there with all the rest. 

“I will be fine, Killian, no harm will come to me, I swear it!”

“As do I, Swan,” he vowed to her, pulling a hand up to his lips to kiss it reverently.  “I shall not let any harm befall you on the stage.  I pledge my life to protect you, darling.”

He saw her shudder, as though a sudden chill passed over her body.  He made to draw her closer, but she pushed back, peering over her shoulder.  A sudden look of panic crossed her face. 

“I must go…”

“Yes, yes you must be on the stage!  They will be wondering where you’ve been for so long!”

She nodded, but he saw that her earlier cold palour was returning, all colour fading from her cheeks.  He leaned forward to kiss her cheek but she pushed away and was gone before he could land the peck.  It wasn’t much matter; it was time to start in on his plan…

 

 

Opening night!  All the seats were sold – every last one, including the reclusive O.G.’s Box Five had not been left out of the queue.  In fact, the Vicomte de Chagny had purchased that one himself as part of his plan. 

The Maîtres Nolan and Locksley stood on the stage, watching the sets for ‘Il Muto’ being rigged together by the prop master, Madame French and the ballet chorus were practicing for the final paces of the show.  Things would be a success when the curtain rose tonight and Regina took the stage! 

“We get our opera…” David started.

“She gets her limelight!” Robin’s smile was joyous and beaming.  He could hear Signor Sidney Glass practicing his scales off to the side of the stage.  The man was definitely in a temper after being usurped by the rogues Maître, but the heart of the Prima Donna belonged to none other than Robin Locksley, and he had wanted to shout it from the rooftops! 

With the sea of roses surrounding Regina in her dressing room, he almost felt he had!  When he had left her, she was busily putting on her makeup, the room awash in roses, daisies and tulips of all colours and sizes.  They were beautiful, but none so beautiful as the glorious smile on her face at a tender kiss from the Maître. 

“Leading ladies can be a trial, my friend,” David patted his partner on the back.  Robin shrugged and laughed, heedless of the advice. 

“So, I hear, can be the principle dancers of the ballet chorus…”

David shoved his friend playfully as the colour rose in his cheeks.  He thought that he had been covert in his advances, but apparently they had been noticed.  Mary Margaret could hardly keep her eyes from him during their rehearsals, and to be fair, he could hardly keep his eyes from her.  This show could be the breaking point of the Opera’s success, he intended to celebrate his good fortune at finding someone as wonderful as she. 

“You’re going to ask her, aren’t you?”

“When the run is over – _if_ it’s as big a success as it seems it will be, I shall be able to provide a good life for her,” David ‘s chest seemed to puff out with pride at the thought.  If he was a successful man, she wouldn’t think twice.  In fact, if he knew her at all, Mary Margaret would happily say yes if he were a pauper.  It was he who wanted so desperately to be able to provide for her. 

There was a moment of silence between the partners as they continued to watch the display before them.  Everything seemed to be going as planned – for once!

 

Meanwhile, Regina was admiring herself in the mirror as the skirt of her dress was being assembled on to her body by a pair of costumers.  She batted her eyelashes in the mirror, pursed her lips, tried to sing a few scales, but found that her joy at her new relationship as well as her return to the stage could barely keep her from a tune.

_“Prima donna, your song shall never die!  You’ll sing again, and to unending ovation!”_

The costumers rolled their eyes, but knew better than to speak to the diva herself, especially when she had enough roses with thorns to blind them both for their penance. 

 

Killian had become the sentinel of the Opera Populaire in his quest to protect Emma from the Opera Ghost.  He walked a circuit through the corridors outside Emma’s dressing room, in his hand he held the numerous notes that had been sent by the offending spectre.

“Orders!  Warnings!  Lunatic demands!”

He continued his circuit of the corridors backstage, wandering out into the opera mezzanine.  He was taking stock of the box seats.  Box Five was by far the darkest, even with the full illumination of the chandelier.  You could not see if anyone sat in the seats from anywhere in the auditorium. 

“Surely for Emma’s sake, I must see that these demands are rejected, once and for all!”

He had already set his mind to thwarting the Phantom, the Angel of Music who was more demon than friend.  Emma would leave the theatre and be so much more alive than he had seen in a long time.  Whenever he saw her inside the Opera Populaire, she seemed a lackluster imitation of herself.  There was always something missing in her spirit, something that seemed so afraid.  He would remove her fright and renew her love of the stage or he was not Killian Jones, Vicomte de Chagny!

“His game is over!”

 

Everything is in place, and Belle French is watching the ballet chorus put in one final rehearsal of one of their more complicated sequences.  She hasn’t hit her walking stick on the floor nearly as many times as she had the last run through.  She seems to be thinking that they are finally getting it!

A large canopied bed is rolled on to the stage for the opening number, and there is a rumble of things going on backstage.  The curtain will be closing soon, the doors opening and the audience will take their seats.  Opera!  There was really nothing like it, such a shame that she had lost the passion for it she had once had. 

The Phantom wasn’t new to the theatre.  Belle had known the story all her life, he had been haunting this particular theatre since she was just a wee lass and had been a member of the ballet chorus herself with hopes of making it to the stage.  An ingénue without training, she’d started working with Ava Blanchard to learn the roles and had once had luck to sing with her in a duet during the Christmas shows.  He had loved her then…

She slammed the stick on the stage and frowned.

“Once more, Mary Margaret!  That was sloppy, not at all like you!”

Her voice still cracked when she raised it too loud.  There were no moments when she sang now, the songs had all died out of her.  There was no power to the music in her soul, only the dance remained. 

When she’d taken ill, he’d promised her the moon if only she would get better and sing his songs again.  For days on end she’d been poorly, her throat a throbbing red mass of pain.  She hadn’t been sure what had happened, but the infection had seeped in, almost to her very soul. 

Weeks had passed and when she was well again, the Angel was gone… Or the Phantom – whatever he was calling himself now, Erik Gold had been everything to her… But he had broken her trust, and broken the vow they’d shared.  She had never cared about his face, that had never mattered to her, what she had loved was the music in his soul.  Sadly, that as well had darkened and deformed over time, until it had become as hideous as the body that housed it.

She knew the games that the Phantom would play.  She knew the strange and depraved lengths that he would go to, if only he could see his music thrive and be adored by the world.  All music is power and all power comes with a price.  It was a price that she did not wish to see another Prima Donna pay in blood, like Ava and Leopold Blanchard had.

“Brava!  Brava!”  she banged the stick on the stage again, signaling the end of the rehearsals.  As the dancers left the stage, she eyed Maîtres Nolan and Locksley, murmuring to herself, “This is a game you cannot possibly hope to win!”

Madame French steeled herself for the evening to come.  Regina Mills, in the glory and splendor of her costume had taken the stage with Sidney Glass, both preparing to take their final places.  Belle looks up and sees her father closing the curtain.  It’s show time!

Emma Swan, dressed in the ridiculous costume of the pageboy takes the stage, standing as near to Henry Blanchard as she can.  Both are playing silent, comedic roles in this production.  Both are having their talent wasted to prove the Phantom wrong. 

Belle lifts her head high and begins to cross the stage, to the area of the wings stage left where she normally watched the performance.  She had almost stepped into the wings when a black bordered envelope tumbled lazily downwards from the rafters, landing promptly in front of her feet.  Gasping in fear, she looked about – the Maîtres had not missed this either, this challenge issued from within by their Opera Ghost!

She ran a finger tentatively across the wax seal, a sad and tearful gesture as she thought of the man Erik had once been, not the beast he had become.  Belle tore it open, hungry for what threats would befall them tonight.  Unfolding the missive, she gasped in alarm at the violent scratchings on the paper.

_So, it is to be war between us?  If these demands are not met, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur!_

The Maîtres were hurrying towards her, panic in their eyes.  She knew they could read the terror written on her face.  The Phantom was obsessed with the power of music, and would stop at nothing to have complete control of the theatre.  She spared the cast preparing for the curtain call a fleeting glance.  Who would pay this time?  Who would pay their penance in blood?

 

 

There were people everywhere!  The auditorium was already packed with revelers in their finery, and any vacant seats soon to be filled by the throng of people milling about the foyer where Killian stood, waiting for the Maîtres Nolan and Locksley to inform them of his plan for the evening.  He kept an eye on the stairwell, the managers would be coming from the backstage area soon he knew, probably thrilled at the turnout for opening night. 

The lamps were lit, the stage was set, the show… Well, the show must go on!  And on it would go, but not according to the plan of this Angel or Phantom!  Not according to his lunatic demands!  Killian and the Maîtres were going to see to that. 

Killian studied the patrons as they came and went, every manner of class represented in the crowd, from the lowly apprentices to the visiting royalty of other lands.  Politicians, lawyers, physicians.  All were decked out in their splendor, jewels and fine garments on display for the world’s perusal!  He pulled the watch from his pocket and checked the time.  Fifteen minutes, not long now…

 

“What could that threat possibly mean?”  David Nolan asked his partner.

“Do you think we should alert the constabulary?”  Robin Locksley returned by way of answer. 

Vague threats were one thing, but without any proof of what was going to happen or who had perpetrated any crime, there was no use involving the police when there wasn’t much a spectre could do.  Or much they hoped a specter could do, at the very least.  They were concerned, only insofar as it meant the show going on this evening, and in fifteen minutes that curtain would rise and the sold out theatre would be treated to the new production of ‘Il Muto’ without any incident.  Everything was ready.  Nothing had been tampered with and everyone was well and on the stage.  There was nothing that could be done now to stop the show from going on. 

As they rounded the corner, leaving their office behind and entering the foyer, they caught sight of Killian Jones checking his pocket watch by the stairs to the boxed seats.  Robin elbowed his partner, gesturing towards their patron with a nod of his head.  Both men were concerned, the Vicomte was slight more than biased when it came to Miss Swan, and they were both concerned that his heart wasn’t in protecting the show and his investment, rather than his lady love alone.  Killian had looked up and noticed the two men exiting the office, and he was quickly on his way over to speak with them. 

“Gentlemen, if you would care to take your seats?  I shall be sitting in Box Five tonight!”

“Do you really think that’s wise, Monsieur?”  David asked, being the only one able to respond for the shock of his declaration.  O.G. would not be pleased about this new turn of events! 

“My dear David, there would appear to be no other available seats other than those in Box Five…”

He raised an eyebrow, winking as he walked up the stairwell.  Both men stared after him, flabbergasted by his brazen attitude. 

 

The orchestra begins to play the overture to ‘Il Muto’.  The gas lamps and the chandelier dim, until they are almost all out and the auditorium is plunged into darkness.  The curtain opened, revealing a giant 18th Century salon and a large canopied bed centre stage.  Everything is going according to the Maîtres’ plans with Regina as the Countess and Emma the Pageboy, Serafimo (who is currently disguised as a maid).  Both of them are hidden behind the canopy as the ensemble actors on the stage start their discourses about the Countess’ current liaison with Serafimo the Pageboy.

_“They say that this youth has set my lady’s heart aflame_!” Maleficent’s Confidante sang to the gathered group. 

_“His lordship, sure, would die of shock!”_ Cruella’s Jeweler sang out clear and strong. 

_“His lordship is a laughing-stock!”_ came the laughing, tittering of Ursula’s Hairdresser. 

Mary Margaret’s character in this opening is silent, an attendant to the Hairdresser, she serves Ursula and the ladies cups from a silver tray meant to be an offering of wine for the conflagration of women.  All they were missing was a large quilt thrown upon risers for them to sew and this would be any everyday drawing room, which was how naturally the scene played. 

_“Should he suspect her,”_ Maleficent threw a hand over her heart in a woe-begone state for her dearest friend the Countess, _“God protect her!”_

All three raised their voices together, in chastisement and warning.  

_“Shame!  Shame!  Shame!  This faithless lady’s bound for Hades!  Shame!  Shame!  Shame!”_

Then the canopy drapes part on the Countess kissing Serafimo passionately, and the audience thunders with uproarious laughter and delight!  David and Robin couldn’t believe their luck; this production was going to be as great a success as the last if the opening act had anything to say about it!

“So much for disaster beyond imagination!” Robin chortled as both gave a nod to the Vicomte in the opposite box, who acknowledged them the same.  There wasn’t anything that ‘O.G.’ could do that would stop this now!

_“Serafimo, your disguise is perfect!”_ Regina sang as she fluffed the maid costume worn by her Pageboy. 

Emma tugged on the pigtailed braids that had been done to her hair, tugging on them and the bonnet as though they could easily come off.  All her gestures were exaggerated, shaking her bottom in the maid’s habit, fluffing the feather duster… Everything in play that she was a boy playing at being a girl. 

_“Who can this be?”_

The knock sounds to indicate that Signor Glass’s master of the house Don Attillo has returned and Emma scurries to busy herself with the dusting of a flower pot as he enters the stage. 

_“Gentle wife, admit you loving husband!”_

Monsieur Maurice “Bouquet” French stood from his usual position in the flies high above the stage watching the performance.  He was always looking down at them from on high, frankly it provided the best vantage point of all, or so he thought.  He could always see right down the décolletage of Signora Mills!

_“My love, my gentle wife, I am called to England on affairs of state and must leave you with only your new maid for company!”_ Sidney sang and then stage whispering for the benefit of the audience, “Although I’d happily take the maid with me.” He waggled the silver wiry eyebrows that had been applied by the makeup artists in lewd gest. 

“The old fool is leaving!” Regina does the same stage whisper for the audience, showing her audible relief and turning towards the young “maid” that is cleverly dusting said flower pot again!

_“I suspect my young bride is untrue to me.  I shall not leave, but hide just over there….”_ Sidney motions, still in aside to the audience, off in to the corner of the set where another rather large flower pot rests, _“…In order to observe her!”_

Sidney turns and starts walking off set, as though forgotten he turns back with a look of shock and sings the next line.  _“Addio!”_

_“Addio!”_ Regina returns and then their voices swell together in a great crescendo on the word.

_“Addio!”_

Sidney moves to hide himself in the corner of the set, and begins watching the goings on with intense interest. 

_“Serafimo!  Away with this pretense!”_

Regina tears the maid outfit off of Emma’s Pageboy, cause the audience to erupt with laughter at the sight!

_“You cannot speak but kiss me in my husband’s absence.  Poor fool, he makes me laugh!  Haha, haha!  Time I tried to get a better, better half!”_

As the Countess resumes the song again, the chorus joins her, swelling their voices to the song. 

_“Poor fool, he doesn’t know!  Hoho, hoho!  If he ever knew the truth, he’d never, ever go!”_

Regina is playing to the audience as the Countess.  She is dancing, smirking and simpering flirtatiously with the crowd knowing just how to move and play on each and every word. 

**_“Did I not instruct that Box Five was to be kept empty?”_ **

The voice of the Phantom boomed throughout the auditorium like thunder, a growing storm growling and snarling on the wind.  The performance has been completely interrupted and the audience had been bewildered by the raucous sound.  There are whispers filling the auditorium and fright swelling within the cast. 

Belle watches anxiously from the wings, saying a silent prayer that none will pay the price of his demands with their blood. 

Emma’s face is white, even beneath all the makeup.  Her eyes dart to and fro across the stage, searching every black shadow that isn’t clearly visible.  Searching out the voice. 

“It’s him…” she whispers, though it is audible enough that Killian rises to his feet as though he would run to her. 

Regina seizes the only opportunity she has, and finding a scapegoat in Emma hisses at her in damning blame of what is happening to their show. 

“Your part is _silent_ you little toad!”

**_“A toad, Madame?  Perhaps it is YOU who are the toad!”_ **

As the Phantom’s voice rumbles through the auditorium again, Regina begins to attempt to play it off.  Nothing is out of the ordinary… The show must go on, right?  She looks at the conductor, and beseeches him continue. 

“Maestro, da capo, per favore?”

The orchestra begins to play anew, from the beginning of the latest song and Regina resumes her ploys and flirtations with the audience.  Emma remains cowering in fear upon the stage, unwilling to partake in this charade of a scene. 

_“Serafimo, away with this pretense!  You cannot speak, but kiss me in my – CROAK!”_

Instead of continuing the song, Regina emits a large croaking sound.  Her voice had indeed turned rather toad like.  In shock, on hand rushed up to clutch at her throat, trying to regain her composure, she inhales deeply and tries again. 

_“Poor fool, he makes me laugh – Hahahahahahaha!”_

Croak after croak emitting after the laughter and she can’t stop!  Her eyes have gone wide, her hands clutching at her throat, terror on her face.  She cannot speak, cannot make any sound save that of a croaking bullfrog come forth from her body.  Even more unnerving is the sound of laughter rumbling throughout the theatre.  The Phantom’s laughter.  It starts quietly at first, but as it grows louder the lights in the theatre begin to flicker on and off, plunging the house in waves of darkness.

Regina screams, her entire resolve breaking down.  The sounds of croaking, gone but not forgotten, and the terror at not being in control of her own body rock her to the core.  Her breath is coming in pants and gasps, frantic sounds of panic. 

“No, no… I cannot… I cannot go on!”

Regina flees the stage, tears streaming down her face as Robin rushes out of the manager’s box to console her.  David rises from his seat and addresses the masses still below, their whispers audible as the curtain swiftly closes.  This was not part of the plan…

“Ladies and gentlemen, the performance will continue in ten minutes time!”

As the house lights return to normal, David turned a glare across the theatre at the box opposite where Killian stands.  The glare at the occupant of Box Five is definitely understood.  Killian acknowledged the glare with a nod and stepped out of the box. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, when we return the role – the role of the Countess will be sung by Mademoiselle Emma Swan!”

A great applause at the sound of Miss Swan’s name fills the auditorium.  Many of them were here not to see Regina, but to see the beautiful Miss Swan and hear her lyrical voice.  David sighs in relief as he sees Robin come out through the curtain and onto the stage. 

“In the meantime, ladies and gentlemen, won’t you please enjoy the ballet from Act…” Robin had forgotten where the ballet chorus item was in the Opera and was riffling through a copy of the program, trying to find the right section, “… Three of tonight’s Opera!  Maestro, the ballet… NOW!”

Maestro Hopper looked as if he might suffer an attack at the command.  He nervously flipped through the score with one hand, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose in nervous reflex.  Robin took in the audience and its hushed murmurs once again, and bowed to them. 

“Thank you very much for your patience, ladies and gentlemen.  And now… On with the show!”

Robin disappeared behind the curtain, which itself opened only moments later on a half changed set and a crew rushing frantically about.  In short, it is a scene of absolute chaos as the orchestra begins again.  The backdrop of a sylvan glade flies in, courtesy of Monsieur Bouquet in the flies and the ballet girls attempt the beginnings of the “Dance of the Country Nymphs.”

Set pieces are still being moved to and fro among the rafters of the flies.  Maurice French, Monsieur Bouquet looks down upon the show below with a snicker.  His daughter was a rare fine hand of a dancer, and he had taught these young lassies well.  He peered down the ramps again, supervising the movements of the throng of men who were trying to ready the stage for the set change again when Miss Swan was ready to step out in the role of Countess. 

It was as one piece was being raised that he saw him, a shadow almost in the darkness of the flies.  Dark shoes, dark pants, dark cloak… As the item raised past his head, enough for a gleam of light to catch on the reflective surface of the white mask, Maurice felt the air rush out of his lungs.  The Phantom of the Opera stood upon the catwalk, his eyes a cold fire that had settled on the form of Maurice French, the prop master.  There was only one thing he could do.  Maurice French ran. 

He kept running, and at the midst of the crossing of the stage, he looked back and saw nothing.  He stopped, relaxing just a little bit.  It must have been a trick of the light, his mind playing tricks on his wary body with all the rumblings of the Phantom this evening.  He looked around, cautiously looking for just where the Phantom could have gone, if it indeed was the Phantom.  Maurice turned back the way he had been running and came face to face with said Phantom.  Face to face with the man, Maurice stumbled backward knocking one of the spotlights out of place. 

The swinging light caused the figure of the Phantom to be illuminated, his full ghastly shadow strewn across the backdrop of the stage below.  It is gigantic and oppressive.  An audible noise sounds from the auditorium, a gasp of shock and fear from the audience. 

The shadow did not go unnoticed to the dancers either.  Mary Margaret danced a bit out of step as she tried to look up, wanting to see the source of the shape.  She could make out Monsieur Bouquet and a strange black shape up above. 

Maurice tried to run again, turning from the Phantom in the other direction but the Phantom was too quick for him.  With a sickening crack, and a flick of the dark clad spectre’s wrist, the noosed lasso found its way about the neck of Monsieur Bouquet, just as it had the day he had demonstrated it for the ballet girls.  Maurice desperately gasped for air as the noose tightened about his throat, unable to get his hand up and under the rope between it and his neck he had moved so quickly. 

“Have you no words, Monsieur French?  Have you no last wish of peace?  No begging for mercy at my hands?”

“I am… glad… my … that Belle is FREE!”

The flash of anger, that burning rage flickered through the eyes of the Phantom and no sooner had Maurice French choked the words from his throat than the Phantom had tightened his grip and yanked harder on the length of rope. 

There are screams from the dancers below and the audience alike as the body of Maurice French tumbles from the flies, dangling from the noose the Phantom had tightened about his neck.  His body swung from the rafters, the grotesque pendulum dangling above the ensemble below.  Pandemonium breaks out among the ballet chorus and the audience. 

Belle, still standing in the wings sinks to floor in sobbing horror at the vision of her father.  She is immovable by the members of her troupe of dancers trying to lift her small frame and pull her away from the sight of her father.  She cannot leave him.  She had warned him, she knew she had, but he had not listened.  She could not leave him. 

David, still alone in the Manager’s Box stands, his jaw dropping at the sight of what has taken place.  Horror, this was horror and terror!  He could see Mary Margaret running from the stage choking back sobs for the man she had known almost all her life.  The man who had told them stories and spun tales for them during rehearsals.  The man who had been a great prop master.  His heart ached at the death of an honest man and hard worker. 

Emma ran through the chaos in the wings, barrelling past dancers and riggers and lighters all rushing to close the curtain and get the body of Monsieur Bouquet down from the hangman’s rope as quickly as possible.  She had to get out of her.  She had to get away, he was coming for her.  She could feel it and she would not go.  She would not go with him again, not ever.   

Killian, who had left the relative safety of Box Five had come in search of Emma himself.  He saw her, coming from the opposite direction and running at a good clip even in the large skirts of the Countess costume. 

“Emma!  Emma!”

He called to her frantically.  He wanted nothing more than to keep her safe, and what better way to do that than to keep her with him.  She turned to the sound, he could see her trying to make out where she had heard the voice from and whether it truly was Killian or the angel she seemed to be running from. 

“Killian!” 

She had seen him, her body almost floating towards him until she was close enough to fling herself into his arms and safely under his protective touch.  She knew that she could not resist the call of the Phantom’s song, she knew that she would follow should he call to her and that wasn’t what she wanted at all. 

“Come away with me darling,” he began and started pulling her back in the theatre. 

“No!” she shook against him, her head shaking in fear, “We are not safe here, no!”

She pulled him along with her, her body moving with purpose away from the crowd. 

Frantic in the Manager’s Box, David readied himself to address the remaining crowd in the auditorium below.  Many people had begun to flee and he hoped to get some sort of control over the pandemonium below. 

“Ladies and gentlemen!  Ladies and gentlemen, _please_ do not panic!”

There was quite a lot of panic down below.  The masses pushing and shoving, trying desperately to exit the theatre and not caring who should be trampled in the exodus. 

“It was an accident, simply an accident!” 

David was speaking to hear his own voice now.  He was cognizant of the fact that they had lost total control of the spectators below, and really who could blame the lot of them for their panic?  Perhaps they would believe that the show would resume after a brief intermission?  It was their intention, he believed to do so.  The show must go on…

 

 

Emma led him to the top of the theatre, the rooftop of the Opera Populaire and starlit night sky.  Paris was beautiful at night, the skyline dotted with stars as the cool and fresh air of fall cooled the fire of her skin.  The rooftop was shrouded in shadow, save for the lights blazing through the skylights from the Opera House below and pouring light in dim puddles.  Gargoyles and statues look out on Paris from the shadows, but she had always felt safe here in the calm and quiet of the night. 

“Why have you brought us here?”

“Please Killian,” she held his hands in hers, her face pleading, “Don’t take me back there!”

“But Swan, we must return!

“He’ll kill you!”

“I’ve told you before lass, I, I am a survivor.  Be still now,” he gathered her into his arms, into the warmth of his embrace. 

“His eyes will find us there….”

“Emma, please don’t say that!  He cannot harm us!”

“Those eyes that burn!”

“Don’t even think it!”

“And if he has to kill a thousand men…”

“Forget this waking nightmare, darling…”

“The Phantom of the Opera will kill –“

“This Phantom is a fable, believe me my darling –“

“…and kill and kill again!”

Killian grabbed her and pulled her to look at him.  Peeri ng in to her green eyes he wanted to take all that pain away from her, take the fear away. 

“There is no Phantom of the Opera –“

She shook her head and turned away from him in despair. 

“There is, Killian!  Did you not see him in the broken spotlight?  Did you not see the shadow he cast across the backdrop before Monsieur French tumbled from the rafters?”

Emma tried to hold back the tears, but she couldn’t.  She hadn’t wanted him to see her cry, but the senseless death of Monsieur French was not lost on her.  They had disobeyed him.  They had disobeyed what the Phantom had asked of them and she knew that he would continue to plague them until he had won.  He had determination, the devil, and a lust for power and control.  He lusted after the power of the music, and it would bring them all to their knees should he have the chance and should they attempt to stop him. 

“Killian, I’ve been there – to his world of unending night… to a world where the daylight dissolves into darkness… Darkness…”

She turned back to him, clutching his hands and shaking them with her terror.

“Killian, I’ve seen him!  Can I ever forget that sight?  Can I ever escape from that face?  So distorted, deformed, it was hardly a face in that darkness… Darkness…”

She shuddered and turned away again.  She didn’t know if she could convince him that this man was real.  She could tell that Killian didn’t quite know what to make of her words.  She’d pulled herself away, her body drifting in to the shadows of the rooftop and looking out across the night sky for strength.  If he didn’t believe her – if he couldn’t believe that the Phantom was real… Then what was to become of them in the end?

“But his voice filled my spirit with a strange, sweet sound… In that night there was music in my mind…And through music my soul began to soar!  And I heard, as I had never heard before….”

She could hear him approach her, could feel his comforting touch on her shoulder and she hoped that she was making him see. 

“What you heard, are you sure it wasn’t a dream and nothing more?” he asked, but she didn’t respond to that.  She didn’t even register that she had heard the question, only continued on her stream of thought. 

“Yet in his eyes, all the sadness of the world… Those pleading eyes, that both threaten and adore…”

“Emma… Emma…”

**_“Emma…”_ **

The ghostly echo of the Phantom’s voice calling her name enters her mind.  She pulls back sharply, her body shaking with fright. 

“What was that?” her voice rose in panic, and she was hoping that she alone hadn’t heard it.  That she wasn’t going crazy. 

Their eyes met and the twinkle of starlight begins to soften the mood.  He gathered her into an embrace, tucking her head under his chin and thought of one way that was sure to soothe her fears.  Emma had always calmed to song, music being something that was a constant in her life in the orphanage.  The father constantly playing his violin for her and teaching her to sing, so Killian thought this was best… and he sang. 

_“No more talk of darkness,_

_Forget these wide-eyed fears –_

_I’m here, nothing can harm you –_

_My words will warm and calm you!”_

He clasped her tighter as he tried to express just how he felt.  He wondered if the words were enough, but he could feel her start to relax in his arms and he knew that all would be well once more. 

_“Let me be your freedom,_

_Let daylight dry your tears –_

_I’m here, with you, beside you,_

_To guard you and to guide you…”_

Emma pulled free of the embrace so that she could look into his eyes.  They sparkled in the moonlight, full of promise and of love.  She continued the tune on her own, singing with the rhythm he had started. 

_“Say you’ll love me every waking moment,_

_Turn my head with talk of summertime…_

_Say you need me with you now and always…_

_Promise me that all you says is true –_

_That’s all I ask of you!”_

Gently, Killian guided her away from the roofs edge, back to the shelter of the doorway where the nearest skylight had puddled a soft golden light. 

_“Let be your shelter,_

_Let me be your light –_

_You’re safe – no one will find you,_

_Your fears are far behind you!”_

Emma pulled away from him again, turning to look out onto the panorama of Paris below her. 

_“All I want is freedom,_

_A world with no more night –_

_And you, always beside me…_

_To hold me and to hide me…”_

Killian followed her, there was no need to run.  He wouldn’t let anyone harm her, but he knew she needed to finish the show.  It had to be done, but this promise was more important than any other commitments. 

_“Then say you’ll share with me one love, one lifetime,_

_Let me lead you from your solitude…_

_Say you need me with you here, beside you –_

_Anywhere you go, let me go too!”_

Killian grasped her hands in his and let his eyes capture hers in a sea of emotion before continuing, _“Emma, that’s all I ask of you…”_

_“Say you’ll share with me one love, one lifetime… Say the word and I will follow you!”_ Emma replied with tenderness, one hand reaching up to cup his cheek.  _“Share each day with me, each night, each morning… Say you love me…”_

_“You know I do…”_

Their voices swelled together into the crescendo of the melody, a promise never to be broken.  They said it with song, much better than they could with words.  There was no power stronger on earth than music.  No love greater than between the two of them. 

_“Love me – that’s all I ask of you…”_

When the song broke, it was more than they could endure.  Killian’s hand found its way into the soft curls at the nape of her neck, his other arm about her waist.  She felt the flood of emotion as well, her head tipping up to him until their lips met, tender and promising, opening beneath the gentle urging of his mouth.  They came apart to draw breath and let out their cry once more, letting the song and its promise.

_“Anywhere you go, let me go to!  Love me – that’s all I ask of you!”_

And he claimed her mouth again, with an urgent hunger.  Nothing would part them, he would not let it.

He could hear them… The sound of their song travelled along the piping from the rooftop that he had installed to bring fresh water down to his lair.  He could hear their song, their sweet promise of love as he sat there, trying to congratulate himself in his grand thinking. 

It was crushing…

_“I gave you my music, made your song take wing…_

_And now, how you’ve repaid me, denied me and betrayed me –_

_He was bound to love you, when he heard you sing…._

_Emma, Emma…”_

The murmur of the song swelled in the air around him.  The power of that love, ebbing and flowing in their cadence, stronger than any power he had ever felt before. 

_“Say you’ll share with me one love, one lifetime…_

_Say the word and I will follow you –_

_Share each day with me, each night, each morning…”_

He cried out in fury and in pain.  The power of her voice, the music with in her – it was HIS.  He wanted to consume it, to absorb it, harness it and command it!  He would bend it to his will, no matter what she wanted.  The power of the music would be his, he would claim it for his own. 

_“You will curse the day you did not do all that the Phantom asked of YOU!”_

He swept his cloak about him and hurried his way back up, up, up from the bowels of the theatre into the wings and into the rafters.  Up into the flies, his feet not stopping until he came to the point in the ceiling that would bring down the house…

 

“I must go – they’ll wonder where I am…,” Emma pushed up to kiss him on the cheek, “Wait for me, Killian!”

“Emma, I love you!”

She smiles at him and it feels as though the earth has started spinning.  Time has stopped and all there is, all there ever will be is this moment and the love they share. 

“Order your fine horses!  Be with them at the door!”

“And soon, you’ll be beside me!”

“You’ll guard me and you’ll guide me…”

She is through the door in a flash and scurrying back down to the backstage corridors to take her place on the stage. The show must go on, she must be their Countess, but then the night is hers and her life is hers.  Her voice is **_hers._**   He would not have her heart, he could not have it.  That belonged to Killian, and it always would.  He could force her to sing, but she would be with Killian because he held her heart.

 

 

After the brief intermission to clear the body and get the cast back under control, the show went on as planned with Emma in the principle role of the Countess and Henry Blanchard in the role of Serafimo the Pageboy.  Regina had watched the performance under the care of Maître Robin Locksley in the Manager’s Box.  Tears formed in her eyes at every glorious note that Emma’s voice swelled to hit, her hand moving reflexively to her throat in defense of the insult. 

The cast was met with uproarious applause as they took the stage for their final bows.  Emma’s face glowed with a serene smile of gratitude.  Killian was watching her from the wings, a contented smile upon his lips.  As she moved to the head of the cast on stage for yet another bow, they heard it.  The whole theatre heard it. 

The maniacal laughter of the Phantom. 

Emma’s head whipped to the wings and landed on Killian, his face a mask of fury and a hand moving to his belt in search of some kind of weapon.  The lights in the theatre began to flicker again, waves of darkness and light washing upon the crowd.  Sparks came from the chandelier above the crowd. 

It was pandemonium.  Running, screams, pushing.  As the chandelier swung above them, the audience tried to scamper over seats, over each other, all in an effort to get out.  Maestro Hopper managed to herd the orchestra out of the pit – larger instruments be damned, but those with smaller items clutched them to their chests.  It’s utter madness!

As the cast clears the stage, Emma stays frozen in place as though she is glued to the spot.  She can hear him, she can hear him screaming for her to move but she cannot.  Her feet cannot move.  She is rooted in place. 

**_“GO!!!!!  Run you fool!”_ **

She can hear the voice of the Phantom; he was watching the terror and the chaos, watching the destruction that he wrought.  She felt Killian’s arms come around her, scooping her up and rushing her from the stage into the wings.  She should tuck her head into the crook of his neck, shield herself from the sight, but she could not…

The chandelier breaks free from its fastenings and plummets downwards in a shower of sparks, crashing in to the stalls with a flash of light blinding her so that she must shield her eyes from the sight. 

 

The soft warmth of spring brought them back to the city.  Paris was awash with new buds on the trees and grasses the most vibrant green she had ever seen.  She had not been out of the city in years, but the last six months visiting the countryside with Killian, seeing the wineries and meeting with visiting dignitaries had brought a great peace to her. It had healed something in her mind that she hadn’t known was broken, and brought her a peace that she hadn’t known was missing. 

She couldn’t say she did not miss the opera.  Emma had missed the opera so much that she had begged him return to the city, return to Paris and let her have a final season with her friends.  One finale, a farewell tour, and then she would be with him and all the singing would be for her love, their family and their friends.  She smiled as she remembered the night he had proposed,  after making the promise of one last season. 

“Then, may I present you with my mother’s ring,” he said softly, “A small token of my deepest affections for you, love.  You are my heart, you are my soul, and I would be overjoyed if I should be able to spend the rest of my life making you happy.”

“Killian, are you asking…?”

“And if I said yes?”

“Then I should say yes, with all my heart and more than my own life.  I love you, Killian Jones.  I love you so very much,” Emma’s voice shook with emotion, her eyes filling with happy tears. 

He had slid the ring on her finger, lifting her into the air as he kissed her, spinning her about as though she was a small child.  It was heavenly, and they had lost all sense of time.  The moment existing for only they two. 

She knew what he would think tonight, though, as she prepared herself for the masquerade gala.  She knew that he would be hurt and embarrassed that she wasn’t going to publicize their engagement, to declare their love from the rooftops of Paris for all to know.  But she couldn’t.  She knew he was still there, and if he knew he would kill him.  Of that she was sure.  If the Phantom knew that she had promised her life and her heart to Killian, he would kill him or worse, and then he would trap her and bend her to the will of his spell. 

She twisted the ruby on her finger with a frown.  She couldn’t protect him, any more than he could protect her.  She just had to hope that she could finish this final season without drawing the attention of the Phantom and then bow out gracefully.  It was the only plan that she had, the only thought that she could muster. 

Mary Margaret had said there had been no communication from the Opera Ghost to the management in the last six months during the repairs to the auditorium and the chandelier.  If there had been, she wouldn’t have begged Killian to return.  She hoped that the Phantom had quelled his thirst for blood with the death of Monsieur French and those hurt or killed with the fall of the chandelier.  She knew it was impossible, but she couldn’t put the hope aside as she readied herself for the gala tonight and the unveiling of the new chandelier. 

 

Banners hung from the torch lit façade of the theatre proclaiming this to be the grandest of masquerades in the city. All of society was invited; anyone who would feel inclined to donate a little money to the theatre that was so in need of a new patron with the coin purse of the Vicomte de Chagny on hand. 

A large crowd of onlookers had gathered near the velvet ropes to see the nobility arrive in their fine costumes and walk up the stairs to the main entrance.   Taking no chances with their potential wealthy patrons, Maîtres Locksley and Nolan had hired guards who lined the stairwells inside and out.  All rigged out in ornamental armour to fit the part of a masked ball. 

Maître Locksley and Maître Nolan, ridiculously costumed in gallant ghostly masks, greet their guests as they arrive inside the entrance into the foyer.  A waiter passed with flutes of champagne of his silver tray and the Maîtres each take a glass, raising them in toast to their success.

“Dear David what a splendid party!”

“It’s the prologue to a bright new year!”

“Quite a night, I’m thoroughly impressed with your planning skills.  Or was it Mary Margaret’s planning skills?”

“Well, one uses what they can to do one’s best,” David bowed slightly at the mention of his lovely new fiancée and her prowess planning gala celebrations.  “Here’s to us!” The gentlemen clinked glasses in toast and David took a sip as Robin continued to talk. 

“I must say… All the same, it’s a shame the Phantom fellow can’t be here!”

The men step into the main entry foyer from the step.  The splendor outside was doubled inside.  Sprigs of gold and silver, shimmering in the light of the new gas lamps, danced with light and colour from every surface.  Where the foyer had been a thing of beauty before, tonight it is wild and on fire with colour and sparkle from the jewels and finery on display.  Between the light of the gas lamps and the candles that are also lit, there is not a scrap of shadow in throughout the theatre.  They were all a little weary of the shadows and the darkness since the fall of the chandelier. 

There were guests everywhere, all masked and deck out in the finest of costumes, revelling in their own magnificence and indulging in all sorts of debauchery that the anonymity of their masked faces allowed them.  The samples of costume are both beautiful and bizarre.  There was peacock, a lion, a dragon, Mephistopheles, a highwayman, a clown, knights, ladies, even an executioner!  The guests travelling up and down the staircase in a dizzying spectacle! 

The sound of the song played is familiar.  They all know the tune, everyone singing as they walk the hallway, keeping tune with the instruments below. 

_“Masquerade!  Paper faces on parade…_

_Masquerade!  Hide your face so the world will never find you!_

_Masquerade!  Every face a different shade…_

_Masquerade!  Look around – there’s another mask behind you!”_

Everyone was in attendance.  Cast, musician, dancer.  The entire theatre company was on display, including the very beautiful Prima Donna Signora Regina Mills who was a beauty to behold at the assemblage in peacock regalia as the very special guest of her love the Maître Locksley.  She had no interest in taking the stage again; her embarrassment from the evening of the chandelier was so great that felt she could never again be the grande dame of the stage.  Drink flowed freely throughout the revellers, and so did the need to dance.  The costumes glittered in the glowing light as they twirled and swirled in dance.

_“Flash of mauve…_

_Splash of puce…_

_Fool and king…_

_Ghoul and goose…_

_Green and black…_

_Queen and priest…_

_Trace of rogue, Face of beast…_

_Faces!  Take your turn; take a ride on the merry-go-round in an inhuman race…_

_Eye of gold…_

_Thigh of blue…_

_True is false…_

_Who is who?_

_Curl of lip…_

_Swirl of gown…_

_Ace of hearts, face of clown…_

_Faces!  Drink it in; drink it up ‘til you’ve drowned in the light and the sound…”_

Emma and Killian had arrived, both costumed and masked, ready to celebrate and make their presence known to the Maîtres.  They couldn’t resist as they entered the foyer, and joined the song together on the next line.

_“But who can name the face?”_

They kiss quickly before joining the revellers to start the twisting and turning up the staircase and into the auditorium.   Emma gasped as she took in the sight!  The auditorium had been completely transformed into a giant dance floor, the seats removed to better provide a space for revelry.  There were people everywhere, guests dancing all over and many of the wealthier guests were above the madness in the sanctuary of their boxes looking out over the massive throng of the party. 

Up in the dome of the ceiling was the truly glorious sight – a new chandelier!  The lights of it bright and hanging high above the dance floor as the piece de resistance and the reason for the beautiful masquerade.  It had been replaced, painstakingly reconstructed to hang as the ornament and adornment of the prosperity of the Opera Populaire.  The guests continued to sing as the company made their way to the stage again, for the first time since the fall of the chandelier – together. 

_“Masquerade!  Grinning yellows, spinning reds…_

_Masquerade!  Take your fill – let the spectacle astound you!_

_Masquerade!  Burning glances, turning heads…_

_Masquerade!  Stop and stare at the sea of smiles around you!_

_Masquerade!  Seething shadows, breathing lies…_

_Masquerade!  You can fool any friend who ever knew you!_

_Masquerade!  Leering satyrs, peering eyes…_

_Masquerade!  Run and hide but a face will still pursue you!”_

They all held glasses of champagne in celebration.  Old friends, almost a family, gathered together to celebrate the start of a new adventure. 

“What a night!”  Belle sighed and leaned upon her walking stick with one arm, the other taking a reverant sip from her glass. 

“What a crowd!”  Mary Margaret clung to David’s arm, her smile so bright it could have outshone the chandelier. 

“Makes you glad,” David said as he bent to kiss his fiancée’s brow. 

“Makes you proud!  All the crème de la crème!”  Robin had sat on one of the benches on the stage, with Regina seizing the opportunity to plant herself in her lovers lap.

“Watching us, watching them!”

“All our fears in the past!” Mary Margaret looked up at David with love and admiration.  Her heart so full of love and her eyes so full of hope for the future, she truly did outshine the new chandelier. 

“Six months…” David started as lost in her eyes as she was in his.  They were like lovesick puppies, it warmed the heart to see them. 

“Of relief!” The voice of Signor Sidney Glass proclaimed from one corner. 

“Of delight!” Regina exclaimed as she planted a kiss to the top of Robin’s brow.

“Of Elysian Peace!” Robin sighed as he wrapped his arms more tightly around his diva. 

“Let’s raise a toast then, to a prosperous and happy new year!”  David cried raising his glass to the roof.

“To the new chandelier!” Robin cried and raised his glass in approval before linking arms with his lover, each taking a sip from the glasses held in their linked arms. 

Emma was leading Killian through the crowd of revellers, pulling him to the side of the dance floor to have a private moment before they joined her theatrical family on the stage and gave them a surprise of a lifetime.  She was admiring her ring, the ruby that she had placed on a long chain that hung hidden beneath her gown and between her breasts.  She pushed her mask up onto her forehead, exposing her face. 

“Think of it – a secret engagement!  Look, your future bride!  Just think of it!” her eyes were dreamy and her voice light and carefree as she thought of it. 

They’d talked of this on the way over.  She had thought it best that they would keep the engagement a secret until they could be certain that the Phantom was in fact truly gone.  Emma couldn’t risk that he was still out there, still waiting for her and that he would murder Killian for the sole fact that she loved him.  That she loved him more than the music and much more than the Phantom, and that would enrage him. 

“But why is it a secret?  What have we to hide?”

“Please, let’s not argue…”

“Emma, you’re free!”

“Wait till the time is right…”

“When will that be?  It’s an engagement, not a crime!  Emma, what is it you’re afraid of?”

“Let’s not argue…” Emma took him by the arm to lead him out towards the stage, her words small comfort to him, “Please pretend… Have patience.  You will understand in time…”

She couldn’t help the nagging feeling in her stomach that he was here, he was watching them, and that terrifying sensation that the Phantom waited only for her arrival to make his presence known again after all this time.  As they begin to cross the dance floor, they are swept up into the midst of a large, intense dance in the middle of the floor and are separated.  Emma is furiously whirled from partner to partner, each one’s costume and carriage makes him more reminiscent of the Phantom.  Terrified and disoriented, she spins and spins in the sea of masks, searching for someone in the crowd. 

Killian reached out and grabbed her, pulling her into the safety of his embrace.  Her fear vanishes in the shelter of his arms and a smile returns to her face.  He swings her back into the dance as the music rolls on.  As the song reaches its climax, the dancers and all manner of guest, including the cast, joined together and rush out into the foyer singing the final rousing chorus on the grand staircase.  Everyone dancing down the staircase to the foyer floor below. 

_“Masquerade!  Paper faces on parade…_

_Masquerade!  Hide your face so the world will never find you!_

_Masquerade!  Every face a different shade…_

_Masquerade!  Look around – there’s another mask behind you!_

_Masquerade!  Burning glances, turning heads…_

_Masquerade!  Stop and stare at the sea of smiles around you!_

_Masquerade!  Grinning yellows, spinning reds…_

_Masquerade!  Take your fill – let the spectacle astound you!”_

As the song comes to its end, the house lights magically dim.  Gasps resound from all the guests, filling the foyer with noise. 

At the top of the staircase, illuminated from behind and the lights that are still on full in the auditorium, a grotesque figure has made an appearance at the top of the staircase.  No one needs to be told who this figure is.  It is the Phantom.  Maîtres Locksley and Nolan move to the front of the crowd, as though to shield their guest from anything the Phantom could do.  They stand at the bottom of the staircase, held in rapt attention to his every movement. 

He is robed entirely in a deep crimson, a long train of blood red following behind him.  His mask is a gruesome skull frozen in a perpetual grin that allows for only a glimpse of the intense eyes within their sockets.  He descends the steps, every one ringing out in a mocking stamp. 

“Why so silent, good messieurs?  Did you think that I had left you for good?  Have you missed me, good messieurs?  I have written you an opera!”

From the folds of his robe, the Phantom produces an enormous bound manuscript.  Shaking the bundle in his hands to show the hefty weight of the paper, he takes another two steps down the stairs. 

“Here I bring the finished score – “Don Juan Triumphant”!” he hurled the manuscript down the stairs.  “I advise you to comply – my instructions should be clear… Remember, there are _worse_ things that can happen than just a shattered chandelier…”

The Phantom turned his attention to Emma, beckoning her with a firm hand to which she obeyed, moving slowly towards him.  Killian stood alone, mystified by her reaction, and utterly terrified for his fiancée.  Killian sought out the choreographer, Madame French, with his eyes to gauge her reaction to the man who murdered her father, but there’s a strange look on her face.  It’s a look of recognition, also one of sorrow. 

Emma and the Phantom reach each other, and there is a moment of tension as the Phantom’s hand travels to the engagement ring that she had kept hidden.  He grasped the chain and pulled it out, holding Emma’s secret engagement ring in his hand, appraising it for a moment.  When he tore it from her throat, the crowd gasped.

“Your chains are _MINE –_ you will sing for _ME!”_

The Phantom gathered his cloak, swirling it around him.  It was what happened next that astonished them all – he vanished!  The Phantom’s robes magically seemed to crumble into a heap on the floor, as though the figure that had been within them giving them shape had evaporated into thin air.  The Phantom had vanished. 

Emma had dropped, her body falling to the floor, but before she could make contact, Killian had scooped her into his arms.  He offered her what gentle comfort he could for her terror, but he was still focused on Madame French and her reaction to this display.  He looked at the Phantom’s discarded skull mask, the grin seeming to mock him with its perpetual grin that he should never be worthy of Emma, never be worthy of that happiness because he could not give her the power of the music.  When he turned to see Madame French’s reaction to this, he sees only her back, quickly disappearing into the crowd. 

 

 

The scene in the Managers Office is one of utter chaos!  Maîtres’ Locksley and Nolan pour over the score of the Phantom’s ‘Don Juan Triumphant’ with eager enthusiasm.  The Phantom had provided them with beautiful scores in past, so it wasn’t a shock that he should provide them with another.  But his demands…

Regina and Signor Glass were huddled around a second copy of the score at Robin’s nearby desk, both muttering and pointing at items on the pages.  It had been a late night, and all the occupants of the office were still dressed in their costumes, though their masks had been abandoned. 

“Ludicrous!  Have you seen this score?” David pushed the papers that he knew very well Robin had been reading with him across the top of his desk towards his partner. 

“Simply ludicrous!”

Robin had begun to pace back in forth in front of the desk, hands running through his hair and causing it to stand on end. 

“It’s the final straw, we can’t possibly take any more of this can we?”

“This is absolute lunacy! Well, you know my views…”

“Utter lunacy!”

“But do we dare refuse?”

When Regina had finished her perusal of the score, she turned to the managers and let them know her displeasure. 

“Outrage!”

Robin turned to her rushing to her side, his solid body determined to make everything right for his lady love.  His concern for her ran over, he had only barely managed to convince her to take the stage again during the gala, and he had been afraid that due to the reappearance of their resident Phantom, she might buckle and waiver under the strain.  He knew that she was strong, but he had almost fooled himself in to thinking that love would have calmed her spark. 

“What is it darling?”

“This whole affair is an outrage!  Have you seen it?”

“Well, yes, my darling but I was wondering what was it that troubled _you_ about it?”

He took her hand in his, bringing it to his lips.  Regina visibly softened, her ire melting into almost nothing… Until her thoughts turned from her lover’s touch to the score that sat on her lover’s desk. 

“Have you seen the size of my part?”

Robin laughed, as did David, the whole thought of the size of the part being offered to the diva who had forced herself into self proclaimed retirement after the croaking debacle!  The ridiculousness of the matter breaking the seriousness of their complaints.  Where once Regina might have been offended, she started to laugh with them! 

“It’s an insult, quite frankly!” Sidney Glass interjected, but then Sidney Glass didn’t hold the relationship of the Maître and the diva in any great light either. 

Regina chose to take this moment to steal a kiss from her lover, something that was tender and gentle and full of fire.  When they broke apart, Robin shot their baritone a withering glare, at least David played his part well by firing back at the baritone. 

“Oh, not you too!”

“Just look at this!”  Sidney grabbed the score and pointed at a segment, “Look this is an insult!”

“Signor, Signor…” David shook his head whilst his partner and their Prima Donna laughed. 

“Oh, the things I do for my art!”

Regina’s raucous laughter rang out in the office when the words left the baritone’s lips.  She waved a hand in the air and rolled her eyes, adding, “If you can call this gibberish art, then have at it Sidney!”

When the door to the office opens to admit Emma and Killian to the group, Regina’s laughter turns to a sneering hiss.  There had been no love lost between them in the past, but at the cough that rumbled under her hand in Robin’s chest she seemed to remember herself. 

“Ahhhhh,” she said, her words not completely without edge, “And here’s our little flower!”

“Ah yes, Miss Swan it would appear that you are the lady of the hour indeed!” Robin put in as well. 

Emma’s confused expression reminded the Maîtres that she had been with the Vicomte and had not as yet had a chance to read the newest score.    David came around the side of his desk with a copy of the score of ‘Don Juan Triumphant’ and placed it in her hand.  

“You have secured the larger role in the show, Emma,” David said softly even though he could see the colour draining from her face. 

“Even though your voice is _untrained_ , Miss Swan, and unaccustomed to this type of role, though I think you will do just fine,” Regina enunciated every word with crystal clear acuity, rolling her ‘r’ and lilting her voice.  It wasn’t a compliment, though Emma knew from experience with the diva that it also wasn’t an insult.  It was an acknowledgement of her skills, however slight, with the insinuation that she must continue to work hard to deserve such a compliment. 

“I – I….”

“Take a look at the score, Emma; it really is quite beautiful!  And quite the roll for you, if I dare say, to showcase your talents,” David was pushing the sheaf of paper harder into her hands, which remained limp and ungrasping.  The terror in her face evident.  This was not the return that she had thought of when she begged to return to the Opera for a final season. 

“Well if it wasn’t for her _talents_ there wouldn’t be a part for her to play,” Regina’s tone was biting, she still harboured a venomous tongue when she felt threatened, and why shouldn’t she?  Since Emma’s arrival at the theatre, she had been forced out of several Opera Populaire productions. 

“How dare you!” Anger brought the flush back to her face, Regina always knew how to push Emma’s buttons, and seemed to delight in making her feel less. 

“I’m not a fool, dear, you seem to think me blind,” Regina fluttered a hand in front of her face, rolling her eyes in mock contempt.  Sometimes when she spoke, her playfulness seemed more like nastiness.  She was sharp of tongue and mind, and many didn’t know it. 

“You evil woman, how dare you!  This isn’t my fault – I want no part of this plot!”

David and Robin looked at each other with shock at this revelation.  They had thought her returned for another season.  They didn’t know she did not want to perform. 

“Miss Swan, surely…” Robin began, moving towards her a step.

“But, why ever not?”  David’s tone matched his visage.  Complete and utter shock. 

 “What did she say?”  Sidney sidled up to his former paramour and whispered his question, thinking to be tactful in the moment. 

“She’s _backing_ out!”  Regina said at full volume, obviously deciding to forego tactful discretion while the managers tried to reassure their little ingénue. 

“Emma, it is your decision – but why?” David asked as Robin cried out, “You have a duty Mademoiselle!”

“I cannot sing it, duty or not!  Please do not ask me to!  Do not force my hand!”

Emma had begun backing away from the conflict, her face flushed with anger.  How could she explain to them what that man did to her?  How he took away her will?  Would the score be the same as listening to his voice alone? 

The room erupted in to chaos, all members talking about the Emma’s assertion that she would not sing, that she could not sing in this production.  The Maîtres wondering what would happen to their theatre company, Regina and Sidney as to what would happen to their careers.  Killian was lost in thought, listening more intently to the conversation of the Maîtres Locksley and Nolan, his brain formulated a plan. 

From the far door in to the management office, the one that led to the corridors backstage came a loud stamp of a wooden walking stick.  It was Madame Belle French, changed from her costume to her usual black dress tamping her walking stick to gather the attention of the crowd.  All heads turned in her direction, all talk ceasing at the entrance of the choreographer.  Belle took a step into the office, pulling her other hand from behind her skirts, a black lined envelope clutched in her hand. 

“Please messieurs, I have a note.” 

Robin groaned, raising his head to the ceiling in silent prayer. He motioned to her to read the item to them, and was rewarded with her soft and steady voice. 

“ _Fondest greetings to you all!  A few instructions just before rehearsal starts…”_

_Regina must be taught to act – not her normal trick of strutting around the stage.  Our Don Juan must lose some weight – it’s not healthy in a man of Glass’s age.  And my managers must learn that their place is in an office, not in the arts.  This is my theatre, and I will see it run in a manner that is fit!_

_As for Mademoiselle Emma Swan… No doubt she’ll do her best – it’s true that her voice is good.  She knows though, should she wish to excel, that she has much still to learn.  If pride will let her return to me her teacher, her… teacher…_

_“Your obedient friend and Angel….”_ Madame French had barely finished the reading when the room erupted in frantic and terse exclamations. 

Only Killian stayed quiet, his mind putting piece after piece in place to the puzzle.  The Phantom was playing a game, it was a strategic risk he had displayed, his one weakness in his letter.   Emma’s voice… Emma’s voice was the key to all of this.  She had to sing!

“We all have been blind – and yet, the answer to this problem is staring us right in the face!  This could be the chance to ensnare our clever friend…” he hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud until the Maitres pressed him for more.  They awarded him their rapt attention. 

“We’re listening…” David said. 

“Please, do go on….” Robin leaned in closer.

“We shall play his game – perform his work – but remember that we hold the upper hand!  Our trump card, our ace in the hole… For if Miss Swan sings, we know he is certain to attend…”

“We make certain that the doors are barred….” David took up the thought as realization dawned in his face. 

“And we make certain that our men are there…” Robin continued with an almost gleeful expression on his face. 

“We must be certain that they are well armed and able to defend themselves…  But when the curtain falls, then, oh yes, then messieurs!  Then his reign shall end!”

Everyone had been eagerly listening in to the plan, though they all remained silent and pensive at the thought.  Killian stole a glance at Emma; she was still pale and withdrawn from group to the edge of the room.  He wondered if she had even heard the plan so dazed was the look upon her face.  Belle was the first to offer her opinion of this plan, and it was not at all what he was expecting. 

“Madness!  It will not work; you are insane to even consider this!”

“I’m not so sure, Madame,” David tried to placate her. 

“But _if_ it works… the tide will turn!” Robin pleads, but she shook her head in response.

“Monsieur, believe me – there is no way of turning the tide!”

“Oh, who asked you anyways?  Why don’t you just stick to the ballet!” Robin dismissed the choreographer’s doubt, but Killian recognized a spark of something he had thought he had seen earlier on her face. 

“Then help us, Madame French.  Instead of warning us – help us to defeat him, once and for all!” he pleaded with her, but she shook her head in vehement dismissal. 

“No, Monsieur I cannot!  I wish that I could!  I wish that it were possible, but there is no way…”

“Or could it be that you’re on his side?” Regina’s venomous accusation flew straight for the jugular.  The petite choreographer shrank in upon herself at the words. 

“No, no, not at all!  I mean no ill, messieurs, not at all!  Please believe we, we must be careful for we have seen him kill!”  All colour drained from her face at the memory of her father’s body dangling as a pendulum from the flies of the stage.  

“We say that he shall fall –“

“ – And fall he will!”

“I tell you, gentlemen, this will be his undoing!  I will not rest until this Phantom has been bested!” Killian raised his first as though ready to charge into battle. 

“If you succeed, you free us all!  There’s only one problem…” Robin nodded in the direction of Emma.  Her hands still held the score, but she was not thumbing through it.  Her face was turned to the front page, but her eyes were glazed over in a dream like repose. 

“You’ll have to get your precious princess to sing,” Regina gestured in Emma’s direction, her remark not the venomous sting her was expecting.  He noticed that she had folded herself deftly into the embrace of Maître Locksley, and wondered if that was the reason for her calmer demeanor.  This certainly didn’t seem like the Prima Donna he had met upon his original sponsorship of the Opera Company. 

“Angel of music, he shall fear _my_ fury!  Here is where you will fall!”

“I beg of you, monsieur, hear my warning!  Fear _his_ fury!” Madame French implored him once more to change his mind, but it wasn’t with anywhere near the determination and fear that she had tried to display.  There was something hopeful in her eyes, although Killian wasn’t sure, he thought that she may be willing them to succeed – willing them to take the Opera Ghost out forever. 

“What glory can _she_ hope to gain from this?  It’s clear to all the girl’s insane!  Look at her,” Regina gestured to Emma’s glazed expression and sighed, “She won’t sing!”

“But if she does sing, darling, we’ll get our man!”

“Clearly, she’s crazy!  Really Messieurs, I don’t know how you think she can sing?  Something missing, wouldn’t you say?” Signor Glass pitched in what he thought was a handy remark.  Regina pushed him away with a limp wrist, clearly more amused at his attempt to stir the pot than she was letting on. 

“Say your prayers, black angel of death!” Killian chanted to the ceiling, still thinking of how he could avenge the emotional torture that had been caused of Emma during her time in the Opera Company. 

“Please don’t…”  Emma’s words were no more than a whisper in the tumult.  A tender plea falling on deaf ears.  They did not hear her; they would not hear her. 

“If Emma won’t, Robin, then no one can.  You read that letter…”

“Never mind David, she will, _she must!”_

“This will be his final score!  The Angel of Music has sealed his fate!”

“Monsieur, I beg you, do not do this…”

“Raving mad!  She’s broken beyond repair!”

“I would take the stage if he could assure me I wouldn’t end the night sounding like a bullfrog again!”

“This will seal his fate!”

“PLEASE!!!  IF YOU DON’T STOP, I’LL GO MAD!”

Emma finally burst through the clamor with a great cry.  The room went silent and everyone was staring at her.  She knew they thought she was crazy, but she didn’t want anyone else to die, and she didn’t want what he was offering.  She wanted to be free.  Killian reached out an arm to touch her, reassure her, but she turned and ran from the room.  The pages of the score tumbling and twisting to the ground where she had thrown them. 

 

He had known where she was headed.  There was no question, she would be heading for the rooftop and the swiftest way was through the corridors backstage.  He left the others in the office, and headed along the corridor and into the dressing areas.  He could see the door to her meagre dressing room, and he could see her slender frame slouched against the wall; the tears were streaming down her face. 

Killian approached slowly, she was keening like an injured animal, and he didn’t want to cause her to take flight again.  He let his footfalls sound heavier on the floor and Emma looked up at him, her eyes red rimmed and filled with the as of yet unshed tears of her distress.  She was distraught, like a caged and battered animal, expecting cruelty from every turn. 

“Killian, I’m frightened – don’t make me do this!  It scares me – don’t put me through this ordeal by fire… he’ll take me; I know…” Emma choked back a sob, her body shaking with her unease, “He won’t let me go… What I once use to dream now I dread… If he finds me, it won’t ever end and he’ll _always_ be there singing songs in my head…”

Killian stepped in to the lamplight with her, it was much brighter down this corridor than it had been before the fall of the chandelier.  He wondered if their experiences with the Phantom had caused that change, and quickly shifted that thought to the side as he put an arm about Emma’s shoulders.  He needed to offer her comfort, not marvel at the state of the new gas lamps! 

“You said yourself, Swan, that he was nothing but a man.  Yet, while he lives, he will haunt us both until we’re dead… Enforcing his power over us, against our will.  Should we bear such treachery and lies?”

She turned from his questions, an unhappy sound emitting from her.  She winced and he could almost see what she was thinking, he could sense that fear that radiated from her.  It certainly wasn’t irrational – they knew the man had a taste for blood and violence, he was enthralled with music and the power that it held over others, the power that it could hold over her…

“What answer can I possibly give?  No matter which way I look at it, I lose!  Am I to risk my life, to win the chance to live?  Can I betray the man who once inspired my voice?  Do I become his prey now?  DO I even have a choice?  He kills without a thought; he murders all that’s good…  I know that I can’t refuse, I can’t refuse the company a saviour – I can’t refuse them the chance that deaths can be avenged if only I will sing!”

Emma was silent.  He wanted to take her into his arms, to wash away the pain that this was causing her.  She didn’t see it as a choice, he had known that she would do it, he had known that she would sing.  Her heart would never have allowed that monster to remain free if there was any way that she could stop him from hurting anyone else. 

“I know I can’t refuse, and yet… And yet I wish I could.  Oh God, if I agree, what horrors will wait for me there in the Phantom’s opera?”

At her cry of anguish, Killian folded her into his embrace.  Very tenderly, he took crooned to her, telling her with every tender touch and caress that he would be there for her. That he knew she could do this. 

“I will be there, no matter what you need of me.  No matter what you decide, I will be there, and I will support you – this is _your_ decision to make, no one else can take that power from you.”

 

 

Maestro Hopper was seated at the piano forte, accompanying the company as they dug into rehearsals for ‘Don Juan Triumphant’ on the stage.  The conductor is clearly not at all enthusiastic about the score, but it’s a job and the company needs to rehearse if they mean to open to the expectations of the Paris opera aficionados.  But a job is a job, after all…

The chorus is before the piano forte today, trying to get the harmonies just right.  Sidney and Regina have been spending the rehearsal elbowing each other as they try to sing along with the chorus, Emma has been reading the score diligently and humming along.  She had yet to actually sing a word.  She still hadn’t firmly committed to singing, but she was at every rehearsal, which everyone believed was a very good start. 

_“Hide your sword now, wounded knight!_

_Your vainglorious gasconade brought_

_You to your final fight – for your pride,_

_High price you’ve paid!”_

Everyone is relieved when Archie Hopper calls an end to the day’s rehearsals, though none so happy as Maestro Hopper himself! 

“Good.  Same time tomorrow, then.”

He picked up the score and walked off, head shaking in dismay at the score they’d given him to conduct.   

The chorus broke apart, Regina and Sidney walking together towards the dressing rooms backstage.  As they crossed into the wings near David, Robin, Killian and Belle (who all watched the rehearsals for any hint that Emma would indeed sing), Regina decided it was about time to let her frustration be known. 

“No one will know if this music is right or wrong.  No one will _care_ if this music is right or wrong,” she said with a roll of the eyes.  It earned a snigger from Sidney, but no one else seemed terribly amused to hear her put into words what they had all been thinking.  Belle put her arm out and stopped Regina in her tracks. 

“Would you speak that way in the presence of the composer?”

“The composer isn’t here.  And even if he were here, I would give him a piece of my mind!”

 “Are you certain of that Signora?” 

Belle’s ominous remark hung in the air between them, causing Regina to look around herself uncomfortably as though she were looking for the eyes of the Phantom upon her.  The thought of which had her strutting off the stage in a flurry of skirts, her eyes darting back and forth like a mouse who’s spotted a cat between home and the cheese. 

Emma had gathered her blue cloak about herself and began to walk away from the stage, alone.  Killian was occupied with the Maîtres and their plans, and hadn’t noticed that she had slipped away in the commotion with Regina.   

“Monsieur le Vicomte, are you confident that this will work?  Will Miss Swan sing?”

“Don’t worry Locksley.  Nolan?”

“We are in your hands, monsieur.”

Killian gave them a nod, just managing to look up in time to see Emma exiting the building by the rear stage door. 

 

She’d gone home, back to the Lucas’ boarding house.  Once he’d been assured that she was safely inside, Killian made to leave when he noted another carriage come along behind the one Emma had just disembarked from and stop just outside her doorstep.  No one got in, no one got out. 

Killian stood stock still in the laneway across from the boarding house, concealed by shadow, and watched with rapt attention.  It wasn’t really all that long.  At sunset, Emma emerged from the house dressed in a heavy hood.  She went down the steps and got inside the carriage, at which point it sped off! 

He moved through the alleyways, watching the carriage pull into the streets, his brow furrowed in concern.  He needed another carriage.  He stepped back into the street, and finding another carriage he looks up at the driver, pointing out Emma’s carriage in the distance. 

“Don’t lose that carriage, man!”

“Yes, sir!”

The carriages rattle through the streets, bumping over cobblestones and over the dusty city streets.  They stay behind Emma’s carriage, not so far that they could lose them but not so close at to be held in suspicion.  Killian wondered where on earth they could be headed as the carriage thundered through dark, almost menacing forest. 

 

 

Through the forest, not much further at all and they would come to the little cemetery where Father Swan was buried.  Emma liked to come here when she needed to clear her mind.  Sometimes it felt better feeling closer to the father, as though the Angel had been a good thing sent to her.  Now she knew.  What she had thought was loving and testament to the one soul she had believed cared for her had only been a lie.  Everyone hurts you in the end, better to leave while you can and save yourself the pain. 

_“In sleep he sang to me, in dreams he came…  That voice which calls to me and speaks my name…”_

The carriage burst forth from the darkness of the forest into the cemetery that sprawled across the hillside.  The graveyard was full of skulls and stone angels, creeping ivy and vines and with the sun just hidden behind the horizon all of these are made into dark silhouettes. 

A bell tolls in the distance as Emma exits the carriage.  She walks solemnly up the path and opens the gate, beginning to walk among the tombs. 

_“Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing… The Father had promised her that he would send her the Angel of Music… He promised her… The Father promised her…”_

Oh what a fool she had felt by that thought!  She should have known that this would be like all the other promises in her life, hollow and without meaning.  Emma placed great value on a promise.  If she promised something, she meant to keep it because of all the promises she had seen broken throughout her life. 

A tear ran down her cheek, the chill of the early spring night was cool, just cool enough to snow.  Great fat flakes falling from the sky, heavy, but not sticking.  The ground was warming, and the snow was only falling her because they were so high up the mountain side. 

_“You were once my one companion,_

_You were all that mattered._

_You were once a friend and father –_

_then my world was shattered…._

_Wishing you were somehow here again,_

_Wishing you were somehow near._

_Sometimes it seemed if I just dreamed,_

_Somehow you would be here._

_Wishing I could hear your voice again,_

_Knowing that I never would._

_Dreaming of you won't help me to do,_

_All that you dreamed I could!”_

Emma pulled her cloak tighter against her body at a gust of wind, her feet moving assuredly on the path towards Father Swan’s monument. 

_“Passing bells and sculpted angels,_

_Cold and monumental._

_Seem, for you, the wrong companions,_

_You were warm and gentle.”_

She could remember him so vividly.  Father Swan, playing the violin and teaching her to sing.  Father Swan, reading to her and teaching her to play the piano forte.  Teaching her to read.  He had been the closest thing to father that she would ever know.  And he was gone, no amount of tears would ever bring him back. 

She bowed her head against the wind and willed herself onwards into the storm. 

_“Too many years fighting back tears,_

_Why can’t the past just die!_

_Wishing you were somehow here again,_

_Knowing we must say goodbye!_

_Try to forgive, teach me to live!_

_Give me the strength to try!_

_No more memories, no more silent tears!_

_No more gazing across the wasted years!”_

Father Swan’s grave is small – a tombstone adorned with the statue of a violin.  Nothing splendorous like the stone angels that top many of the other mausoleums, but Father Swan had been a simple man.  Emma lay herself down by the grave, tears streaming down her cheeks.  The last bit of light had disappeared from the sky and all that is left is the moonlight to illuminate the graveyard. 

_“Help me say goodbye_

_Help me say goodbye...”_

All was quiet, the rustle of the leaves in the wind was all that could be heard.  Emma let the tears flow freely until they stopped, prepared to say that goodbye – goodbye to the things she had thought she knew, when the strains of a ghostly violin can be heard throughout the cemetery. 

“What?” Emma scrambled to her feet, bewildered by the sound. 

_“Wandering child, so lost, so helpless, yearning for my guidance…”_

Emma murmured a breathless prayer as she spun on place, her eyes searching the shadows for the source of the sound.  He was here, but she wasn’t quite sure where.  He was here and he could not hold his power over her.  She would not _let_ him. 

The Phantom came out of the shadows, showing himself in the light of the moon.  He beckoned her towards him, but she stood still.  His voice growing stronger, the web thicker as he sang, he tried to suck her in. 

_“Have you forgotten your angel…?”_

The Phantom beckoned to her again, calling her towards him.  She tried to fight, tried to resist, but felt herself losing the will to hold back.  Her feet began to move towards him. 

_“Too long you’ve wandered in winter…_

_Far from my far-reaching gaze…”_

She felt the click the moment she believed it.  What she knew to be true, what she was the only thing that mattered.  Emma felt the power inside of herself, steeled herself against what was about to come.  She could almost see the hypnotic web that he spun about her, she could hear what he wanted from her, and if it meant that she would be the winner in the end, she would make him believe.

_“Wildly my heart beats against you…”_

Killian arrived in that moment and she felt fear for him, seeing him appear in the shadows of the trees.  He couldn’t know what was going on inside her mind, wouldn’t know, but maybe he would be able to help her in the end.  Fight the demon with her. 

_“You resist… yet your soul obeys!”_

She is still walking towards him, walking towards the Phantom who stands on the mausoleum, hand outstretched to guide her.  There was a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach, she could feel what she needed to say, feel what she needed to do.  There was no choice, this was what she was meant to do. 

Killian came rushing forward, sword raised in preparation for a duel. 

“Angel of darkness, cease this torment!  Release her from your perverse spell!”

The power was growing inside of her, the feeling that this was right. 

_“I am your Angel of Music… Come to me:  Angel of Music…”_

Emma stopped dead, feet from the Phantom whose face had contorted in fear and rage. 

_“Have you forgotten your angel…?  Have you forgotten your angel…?”_

She could feel the force that he was pouring into the words and the melody, but she refused to succumb.  She could see him shrinking back.  Without the power of his words, the power of his music, the Phantom was helpless.  He wasn’t in his layer, they had him out in the open. 

“Emma, you could be so much more than this… So powerful, so much more than the nothingness you are!”

Emma felt the fire and rage of her fury at his words.  She signalled to Killian to charge as she walked forward, staring him down with eyes that burned, spitting daggers from her mouth. 

“I am not nothing; I was _never_ nothing!  The power that you have, I do not need!”

Killian lunged forward, sword striving to make purchase in the flesh, though never making a connection.  The figure of the Phantom vanishing right before their very eyes. 

Though he wasn’t seen by Killian Jones, Vicomte de Chagny or his beautiful wife Emma ever again, there were rumours of a demented form of monster, a man who haunted the bowels of the sewers throughout Paris.  If you’re very quiet, some say you can still hear the sound of his mournful keening at the loss of everything he held dear under the full moon on a cool spring night. When faced with the Angel of Music or the Angel of Darkness, it always helps to remember to sing a few words, after all they served Emma Swan well:

 

**_The power you have, I do not need._ **

**_You have no power over me._ **

 

 

 


End file.
